


Lying In Wait

by senalishia



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Animal Death, Canonical Character Death, Courtship, Depression, Discussion of Rape, F/M, Fluff, Forced Labor, Gay headcanon for a character that is brutally tortured and murdered in canon, Grief, Hallucinations, Imprisonment, Incest Mention, It's the Narn i Chin Hurin y'all, LaCE compliant, Love Triangles, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Original Elf Characters - Freeform, Parental Death, Physical Disability, Premarital chastity, Sacrificing one's life for others, Two awkward virgins have sex for the first time, Villian acting creepy in a gay way, Whipping, annoying older brothers, annoying younger brothers, enslavement, female sexual dysfunction, forced pregnancy mention, more or less
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2020-01-24 01:15:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 91,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18560944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senalishia/pseuds/senalishia
Summary: The story of how Gwindor and Finduilas met and fell in love





	1. Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> If I continue to have the time, I intend to follow this relationship all the way through the wars, captivity, Turin, and other horrors to these poor kids' death and even beyond that. We'll see how it goes. Tags and rating will be updated accordingly. (The "Graphic Depictions of Violence" show up in chapter 14, and may be considered canon-typical.)
> 
> Oh and to head off any confusion, "Rodnor" will one day grow up to be everyone's favorite High King of the Noldor, Gil-galad. (I'm more or less going with the "Shibboleth of Feanor" version of him, where he's Orodreth's son, because I AM THE AUTHOR AND NO ONE CAN STOP ME.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finduilas has a secret admirer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter was originally written as a stand-alone double drabble for Back to Middle Earth Month 2019, for the "Women of the Silmarillion" bingo card prompt "Women born in Beleriand". After that, this couple just stuck around in my head and it only took a tiny bit of outside prompting to decide I wanted to write more.

Finduilas returned to her room to find a folded note with her name on it wedged in the crack of her door. She examined it as she entered, wondering if it had any connection to the roses that had mysteriously appeared at her place at dinner yesterday, which no one could be induced to admit to.

Opening the note, she read,

_ As starlight on awaking water glimmering, _

_ As moonlight-frosted waves on distant seas, _

_ As sunlight on the pools of Ivrin shimmering, _

_ My heart's desire hath beauty more than these. _

Well.  _ Goodness _ . She checked again that the note had actually been addressed to her--no one had ever written her  _ love poetry _ before. Then she searched the single sheet for a signature or any clue as to the author’s  identity , but found nothing.

It could just be coincidence, but Uncle Finrod  _ had _ brought several visitors up with him from Nargothrond recently. Lord Guilin and Lady Banloth and their sons, for instance. Both were quite handsome, and Gwindor had seemed so charmingly brash and brave. Why would he keep his feelings anonymous?

It could be anyone, really. Silly of her to daydream when she would surely be disappointed once the truth came out.


	2. Girlish Charms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finduilas and Gwindor flail awkwardly at each other and slowly get to know one another. Rodnor is best wing man. Gelmir is trying to help, really. I know almost nothing about horses.

Five minutes after he saw Finduilas turn down the corridor to her room, Gwindor couldn't resist walking past her door himself. His note was no longer there. She could be reading it  _ right now _ .

He’d earned his place among the most accomplished young warriors of King Felagund's court, but he'd once faced down a demon wolf twice his size with less trepidation than this. Death could not hold more terror for him than seeing rejection in her eyes. Openly declaring his feelings was the one risk he could not bring himself to take; he made do with these anonymous tokens of affection.

“Did you actually talk to her yet, or are you still lurking in her shadow?”

Gelmir lounged against the wall at the end of the corridor. Gwindor may have let his brother sneak up on him once again, but he at least had enough control not to flinch too noticeably. “As a matter of fact, I wrote her a poem,” he restricted himself to the most flattering parts of the truth.

Gelmir’s eyebrows rose. “I thought the point was to impress her with something you're good at.”

Gwindor scowled at this mockery of his efforts, but dared not raise his voice just outside the princess's door. He stalked over to his brother. “I can do  _ anything _ with her beauty as inspiration,” he hissed, pushing aside the wave of self-doubt that rolled through him.

Gelmir’s chest began to shake with silent  laughter. “I suppose anything you're confident enough to sign your name to can't be  _ that _ bad.”

Well, as for  _ that _ … “I left it at her door unsigned,” Gwindor confessed, dropping his forehead onto Gelmir’s shoulder.

“I see. In that case, you’ll have momentarily entertained her with a bit of mediocre art, but if you desire anything more than that I think you might have to try a little harder.” He patted Gwindor gently on the back

Gwindor slipped away from him and strode toward their suite of guest rooms. “Oh, what would you know, you've never wooed a woman in your life. You have to approach them delicately. If you come upon them too fast they'll spook.”

“I see,” said Gelmir, following. “It appears women are actually some sort of game bird, then? If that's so, I'm glad I've stuck with men.”

Gwindor rolled his eyes. He knew he could only get so far without revealing himself. And he would. Someday. They planned to remain at Tol Sirion for most of the summer; surely he'd find his courage before they departed.

 

* * *

 

By breakfast time the next morning, Finduilas had read over the poem at least two dozen times and memorized ever word. She'd given up combing them for any clue as to their maker; she was never very good at riddles anyway.

She did, however, have the self-awareness to note the number of times her heart quickened at any evidence that might point to Gwindor as her reticent admirer. Any supposed signs in that direction were probably all in her head, but she'd certainly learned something about  _ herself _ nonetheless. And if she knew who she wanted, it seemed a shame to wait around for him to come to her. 

Grandmother Edhellos would find it shocking if she were  _ too _ forward; she would suggest Finduilas ask her mother to invite him to afternoon tea with the family. Except that Finduilas's mother, who held only so much with Noldorin customs, did not keep a regular afternoon tea and would ask her what was wrong with offering him gifts of mushrooms and wild honey as the Sindar women of the mountains did. She didn't quite know if Gwindor would take that the way she intended however, as he had been raised in Nargothrond and his father and all his Sindar relatives were from Menegroth itself, where, she understood, they did courtship a third way altogether.

Maybe she would just try talking to him.

She gave in to a sentimental urge to slip the poem into her pocket before she left her room, to keep it close to her. Regardless of who it was from, it meant she was desired, desirable, and that gave her confidence.

By chance, she came upon the subject of her thoughts not too long after exiting her room. They'd been introduced but hadn't spoken much beyond that; she took a deep breath and channeled everything she felt into a sincere smile, and began with, “Why, good morning, Lord Gwindor!” She fluttered her eyelashes, prettily enough she hoped.

When he looked at her but didn't immediately respond, she continued, “I trust you've enjoyed your stay here so far?” She waited longer, but he still didn't reply, only stared with no discernable emotion. What had she done wrong? She  _ had _ to at least save this conversation. What else could she say--oh, the weather! “Is the climate here in the north to your liking? I remember passing the summer in Brithombar once, and how beastly hot it can get further south.”

“Yes--lovely--everything--lovely--” he stammered finally.

Then the silence yawned between them again until she couldn't justify putting either of them through this torment any longer. “Ah, I should go, but I’m so glad I got to talk to you!” She risked brushing her hand against his forearm before hurrying away.

Her feet knew the way to her parents’ parlor and carried her there as her mind remained stuck on figuring out how everything had turned out so disastrously. They'd spoken less than a hundred words between them and somehow they were all the wrong ones. Whatever Gwindor felt toward her, it was something that precluded even basic politeness. She would want to repair something that broken with anyone, much less a potential...whatever.

Her reverie was forcible interrupted soon after she walked into the parlor by a solid blow to her side. “Hey, I'm talking to you!”

“Rodnor, hitting is not an acceptable way of getting someone's attention, especially a lady,” their father admonished him from across the breakfast table.

“Sorry, Rodnor, what is it?” Finduilas returned her attention to her surroundings and realized in hindsight that her younger brother had in fact said her name a couple of times already.

“Will you go riding with me today?” he looked up at her with his best pleading eyes.

“I would love to, but I have some letters to write this morning. How about we go this afternoon, after your lessons?”

He whooped with delighted, but refrained from further celebratory antics at a warning glance from their mother and returned to finishing his breakfast.

Finduilas poured herself some tea and found herself turning those same thoughts from before over and over.

“Finduilas, is there something weighing on your mind?” her father asked after she'd silently picked at her food for several minutes.

She bit her lip. She didn't want to bother her father with her personal problems, but if the problem was with one of his guests, he ought to be told. “It isn't anything too--that is, I spoke with Lord Gwindor in passing this morning, only he didn't, well we didn't--something wasn't quite right. I’m afraid I may have offended him somehow.”

“Did you say something unkind to him?” her mother wanted to know.

“I barely said anything at all! We just talked about the weather!”

“Then perhaps this problem is not yours to worry about.”

“I'll speak to Prince Guilin,” her father offered. “I'm sure it's nothing that can't be fixed.”

Finduilas nodded. She hoped so. She respected her mother's wisdom, but in this case, she wasn't so worried about being at fault, she just wanted Gwindor not to hate her.

 

* * *

 

“Gelmiiiiiiiir…” Gwindor shuffled into his brother's room and cast himself onto the bed.

Gelmir continued to dress without letting the intrusion interrupt him. “Back so soon? I thought you were going to tour the armory.”

“I'm going to throw myself into the Sirion.”

“Don't try to be so dramatic, it doesn't suit you. What happened?”

“She talked to me.

“...And?”

“I completely froze! I couldn't even put together a whole sentence in reply.”

“That can't have made a very good impression.”

“We just stared awkwardly at each other for what felt like centuries, and then she rushed off! She must hate me now!”

“ _ Relax _ , Gwindor. One botched conversation is not an insurmountable failure. You are overthinking this, and it seems a poor use of your already scarce mental resources.”

“Very funny.” Gelmir had to dodge a half-hearted kick in his direction.

“In truth, I recommend you put your lady love out of your thoughts for a day and do something you already enjoy. Go inspect the armory. Appreciate the river from a less self-destructive distance. Get King Felagund to show you the dungeons; I hear he's particularly proud of them.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Just for today. It will help, I promise. She’ll still be here, and you'll be able to come back to your wooing with a clearer head.”

“Fine.” Gwindor got to his feet as if the movement cost him most of his strength. “What are you up to today?”

“Lady Gilthand has offered to show Father and I some new things they're doing with pottery glazes out here.”

Gwindor's opinion of that showed plainly on his face.

“I know, I know. Once you turn one hundred you become incorrigibly boring. Go do as you like. Love will keep. We'll talk about it tonight, all right?”

“Right.” Gwindor trudged out the door.

 

* * *

 

Rodnor charged ahead of Finduilas on the way to the stables, his shorter legs more than made up for by his limitless energy. As she entered the warm, shaded building, she frowned at the sound of a half-familiar voice, not her brother's.

“Oh! Is that your horse?”  _ That _ was Rodnor, openly appreciative of one of their guest’s steeds.

When she rounded the corner and discovered  _ whose _ , she nearly turned right around, prepared to inform Rodnor that unfortunately they would just have to postpone their ride for another day. It would be unfair to make him suffer for her own comfort, however.

She indulged her cowardice so far as to not meet Gwindor's eye as she led her own chestnut mare from her stall, though she also gave up the ability to see if  _ he _ was watching  _ her _ . Why hadn't she worn her  _ good _ riding dress, instead of this old one that she didn't mind Rodnor splashing mud on?

“He's a gelding, right?” Rodnor was saying. “What's his name?” As he approached his thirtieth birthday, it had become increasingly difficult to pry him away from anything involving horses or swords.

“Yes, that's right. His name's Galithil,” Gwindor responded genially; at least whatever his problem had been this morning, it didn't extend to the rest of the family.

“Because he's big and grey and he has spots, like the moon?”

“I thought it suited him. He's as willful as the moon too--he'll wander wherever he wants unless you keep a firm hand on him.”

Finduilas risked drawing attention to herself to hurry her brother along. “Rodnor, go get Gwilwileth and I'll help you saddle her.” She glanced over at them, then dropped her head with a jerk as her eyes for a moment connected with Gwindor's. If he hadn't been paying attention to her before, he definitely was now.

“We're going riding out on the west side of the river today,” Rodnor chattered as he moved to obey her request. “You and Galithil should come with us!”

_ Rodnor, no! _ That was all she needed, a chance for one of them to embarrass themselves even further than they had this morning. Finduilas busied herself with her Norloth's tack and tried to ignore the growing heat in her face. 

“Ah, I'm sure you and your sister would-- that is, I wouldn’t want to intrude--” Gwindor stammered.

“Nah, she doesn't mind, right Finduilas?” Rodnor grinned hopefully. “Please? I want to see how fast he can go on open ground.”

Oh, for Elbereth’s sake. She wasn't a child, and neither was Gwindor. Surely she could make it through an hour in his company unscathed. She'd make the offer, at least, for love of her brother; and as her mother had said, if she behaved herself, she couldn't be blamed for what would happen. “It’s no trouble, Lord Gwindor,” she acceded in her politest voice. “Rodnor and I would be most pleased to have you accompany us, if you wish.”

That horrible silence creeped back in. “Thank you. I would be honored to join you both,” Gwindor finally replied.

Fantastic.

Finduilas tried to be optimistic as the three of them crossed the small West Bridge into the narrow plain between the river and the sheer cliffs of the Ered Wethrin. At first she evaded the responsibility she had taken on with the invitation and allowed Rodnor to carry the conversation almost entirely. He had no trouble peppering Gwindor with questions about his horse, the lands he'd seen, and the battles he'd been in, and Gwindor seemed untroubled and ready to give suitably entertaining answers. 

Still, Finduilas had been raised better than to completely ignore her companion through the entire outing. Exiling from her mind any anxiety over her last attempt to converse with him, she nudged Norloth alongside Galithil and tried to come up with a suitable comment on his tale of a recent hunting misadventure.

Just as she opened her mouth to speak, he said, “Princess, I wish to apologize for my rudeness this morning.” The words rushed out of him as he stared off at the mountains. “I was distracted by--other thoughts, which my brother delights in reminding me I have only so much mental capacity for. Not that this is any excuse for upsetting you so. I'm grateful to have seen you again so that I might make amends.

So. He didn't hate her. Of course he didn't. Why had she worried so much? “Think nothing of it,” she told him breezily. “Which of us is at our best that early in the morning, after all?”

“Indeed.” He turned to look at her, finally, and he really had quite a lovely smile, didn't he? “I thank you for your understanding.” The pause left this time seemed much less fraught before he asked, “Has your day been a good one otherwise?”

Before Finduilas could answer, Rodnor doubled back to them from where he'd been following a hare through the grass and said, “Lord Gwindor! Race me!” Gwindor gave her an apologetic glance as she nodded her permission for him to abandon their fledgeling conversation.

“To that oak over there, all right?” said Rodnor and immediately urged his pony into as much of a gallop as she would agree to. Galithil seemed eager to run his hardest as well, but Gwindor obviously held him back, never pulling too far ahead of Rodnor and occasionally even dropping a bit behind. Now that the atmosphere between her and Gwindor had become more pleasant, she allowed herself to appreciate for a moment what a fine figure he cut, straight-backed and broad-shouldered astride his horse. The beauty of it rather captivated her, and however long she looked she could see no flaw in it.

Rodnor said something she couldn't make out at this distance, and Gwindor leaned forward and gave Galithil freedom to run at his full speed. He truly was a fine animal, and Gwindor handled that power well. Rodnor stood up in his stirrups and cheered them on enthusiastically. 

Gwindor reached the agreed-upon tree in less than a minute, reined Galithil around, and waited there until Rodnor and Finduilas caught up. “Your brother is a fair rider already,” Gwindor commented as they started back to Minas Tirith, the sun already dipping to cast the mountains into long shadows. “Is he about ready for a real horse of his own?”

Finduilas checked that Rodnor had once again strayed somewhat off to the side of them before saying, not too loudly, “He is, actually. There's a mare in the north pasture right now carrying the foal he'll be getting for his birthday next spring. It took Father ages to pick out just the right stud, he almost missed the chance to get it started in time.”

“He's the kind of person who likes to plan ahead, your father? Choosing a good horse is difficult enough, but breeding one--that takes patience.”

“Oh, yes--careful thought and deliberation are definitely among his strengths.” Out of love and respect for her father, she tried not to make it sound too much like a complaint.

 

* * *

 

Gwindor continued to brush and soothe Galithil and thank him for his good behavior long after Finduilas and Rodnor had left to prepare for dinner. He'd managed to push aside his nerves during the ride--being involved in an activity he felt comfortable with had helped immensely--but he found himself trembling slightly as he methodically stowed his tack. It seemed almost unbelievable that he'd spoken for so long with her, easily, naturally, and nothing had gone wrong. Now that he'd witnessed some glimpse of her personality in conversation, poised and thoughtful and caring, his heart ached for her all the more fiercely. He thought his body might rip itself apart if he didn't find some expression for this emotion, but at the same time fear of her disapproval still yawned as an unfathomable chasm in front of him.

“Oh, Gwindor,” he heard as he finally exited the stables. Gelmir, of course; his brother fell into step beside him and draped an arm over his shoulder. “I take my responsibility as your older brother very seriously, you know. I try to give you good advice, to make use of my life's experience for your benefit, and I have to admit it disappoints me somewhat when you turn around and do the  _ exact opposite _ of what I suggested.”

“How was the pottery demonstration?” Gwindor asked evenly.

“Fascinating, the crafters’ community in Nargothrond have a lot they could learn from the people out here. How was riding with the princess?”

What could he say? Gwindor waited until they'd entered the tower proper and had started toward their rooms before saying, “It wasn't my fault. They just showed up there and before I knew it she'd asked me; it would have been rude to refuse.”

“I suppose it may be too much to expect you to entirely avoid a lady in her own house, and you did not answer my question.”

“It was…” Not even to his own brother did he think he could adequately describe what was in his heart right now. “It went well.”

And he shut himself in his room and sat down to compose another poem to her beauty--to be delivered anonymously, of course.


	3. Threatened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finduilas is officially In Love, but realizes that something is seriously bothering her father. I've found that romances tend to go over better when there's some other plot to carry things along, so have some Danger and Excitement.

All the rest of that day and most of the next week, Finduilas couldn't stop herself from smiling. Just the thought that Gwindor  _ existed _ , and that he was here, and that he would now speak at least a few words to her whenever they passed in the corridors, was enough to set her grinning. After every encounter with him, she was liable to laugh out loud, her heart felt so full and merry. She was always hunting for another excuse to spend more time with him.

Meanwhile, however, another poem had mysteriously found its way to her door, this one detailing the author’s delight in her  voice and manners. It was all still rather flattering, but at the same time it made her stop and consider. Now that she and Gwindor were on speaking terms, she questioned whether these gifts could possibly be from him. If they were not, then there was an unknown third party involved in all of this...whatever it was. 

If someone else had been paying her court  _ openly _ , she would consider it only polite to let them down gently before pursuing another person herself. She didn't know where her responsibility lay when the admirer refused to reveal himself. She had half a mind to set Rodnor to spy on her door and thereby gain some intelligence.

She tucked the note into a space on her dressing table next to its mate. A couple of poems and some flowers hardly amounted to an obligation, nor a few polite conversations in passing to a transgression. Still, she hoped all this secrecy resolved itself soon in one way or another.

Regardless of this one difficulty, Finduilas's mood ran so consistently to soaring that it took her longer than it should have to realize that something was troubling her father. But gradually she noticed that he always seemed to be just returning from the highest lookout at the top of the tower, frowning and muttering to himself, or coming out of long meetings with Uncle Finrod looking more pensive rather than less.

She caught the tail end of one of these meetings one afternoon when she sailed into her father's study without knocking, intending to ask him what resources she might draw on for this year’s Midsummer celebration. Her mother had in recent years allowed her to take over almost the whole of the event's planning, as long as time was given for the traditional rituals to be observed, and she appreciated having, in some small way, a responsibility over something useful to her people.

“--gave you the care of this tower because I  _ trust _ you, Orodreth,” Finrod was saying. “You've lived with these people for centuries, you know their ways far better than I do, and I'm sure that--oh, hello Finduilas.”

“Pardon me, Uncle,” she said, not having meant to intrude on what appeared to be a serious discussion. “I didn't realize my father was occupied. I can come back--”

“No, no, I think I've said everything I need to.” He gripped her father by the shoulders. “I will support you in whatever you decide. Just remember that choosing not to choose is a choice in itself.”

As soon as Finrod left, her father squeezed his eyes shut and sighed deeply. She regretted having been too wrapped up in her own feelings to see how much this unknown problem was weighing on him, and took his hand in both of hers in some small attempt at comfort. She didn't often involve herself in her father's responsibility for the stronghold they lived in, but in this case she allowed herself to ask, hesitantly, “Can I do anything to help?”

He shook his head. “No, thank you darling, but you needn't worry yourself about any of this. He's right, I merely need to--” His brow furrowed, then he collected himself with a breath. “Did you need something?”

As they discussed her original purpose for coming, she tried to keep her demands on her father to a minimum, but he seemed to appreciate having something trivial to think about instead. Her plans perhaps became a bit more elaborate whenever she imagined something she might do together with Gwindor, but after all, she knew of plenty of other people who might benefit from a little romantic opportunity. Her empathy for her father notwithstanding, she nearly danced with excitement as she left the study. 

Nevertheless, she noticed her father's distress every time she saw him now, and didn't feel right ignoring it entirely. Her mother perhaps knew something, but remained implacably tight-lipped on the subject, apparently even more sure than her father that this was none of her daughter's concern. Finduilas began listening more to the talk among the scouts and guards, and asked whatever questions she thought they might give their princess useful answers to, but aside from the fact that they were also on edge about something, she learned little.

She won her best information out of Gwindor, oddly enough given that she hadn't been trying to do anything more than indulge in a respite of pleasant chat with  _ him _ . She'd only been asking him what his plans for the day were (and perhaps angling to find a way for them to coincide with hers).

"To tell the truth, not much," he replied. "I'll admit I'm trying to avoid committing to anything too far in the future, in case we finally get permission from the lord of the--that is, from your father--to ride out against those things up north."

"Those things?" she asked immediately. She'd deduced already that the trouble was in the direction of their border with the Enemy's territory, but "those things" was new. Unless he simply meant orcs, which had to be fended off regularly; but if so, why not say so? "What things do you mean?"

"Oh, probably nothing you need to worry about," he backed off immediately; even he must feel reluctant to burden her with the unpleasant details of the siege that had lasted many times more years than she had lived. 

Normally, she kept to her expected place and didn't push, but--this was different. She found suddenly that she didn't just want Gwindor to like her--she wanted him to  _ respect _ her. "If it threatens me or my people, I want to worry," she said softly.

He deliberated for a moment, but then relented. "I haven't actually seen for myself, only heard what the scouts are saying." he hedged. "It's some new creature of the enemy, a sort of huge insect of some sort? And not a few orcs with them, tending them or driving them, I think they're not sure yet."

No wonder her father seemed anxious. "How close are they, do you know?" she asked.

He grimaced. "I don't, really. I'm sorry. Close enough to see unaided from the tower, I've gathered, but perhaps not by much." He took a deep breath and continued, "But headed this direction and getting closer every day."

She'd never seen battle. It was difficult to conceive of such monsters bearing down on them in a way that actually made her fear for herself. But there were small settlements in the lands between here and Thangorodrim, many elves of her mother's clan that had followed her example and intermarried with the Noldor from the west, and even a few families of the new-come Men, even more vulnerable and fragile. "Oh," she said as she continued to think. She'd never sent soldiers into battle, couldn't comprehend having that sort of responsibility over someone's life, but the settlers' lives were threatened already. How could her father hesitate to act? "I see. Yes, I understand why you would be anxious to do something."

"Do you happen to know--whether your father…?"

"I don't, I'm sorry. He doesn't discuss that sort of thing with me." It wasn't her place, there was no reason for her to sound bitter.

"It's alright, I understand." She hoped that was true; however irrational the expectation, she hated feeling like she'd let him down.

* * *

 

Gwindor understood at least in part why Lord Orodreth had not yet sent anyone out when, several days later, Crown Prince Fingon himself showed up at Minas Tirith with two dozen veteran warriors behind him.

Gwindor found himself a little bit in awe of the elf who had led his people across the Grinding Ice, fought off a dragon, and braved Thangorodrim itself unaided. To his surprise, Gelmir seemed no less fixated on the prince's every move. 

"He is so,  _ so pretty _ ," Gelmir explained, burying his face in his hands. "It's really not fair."

"Is it your turn to show me how much braver you are than I am?" Gwindor suggested.

"No. Either the rumors are false, in which case it's probably hopeless, or they're true, in which case it's definitely hopeless. Just let me suffer in peace."

Gwindor had more mercy on his brother than perhaps his brother'd had on him, but in truth Gelmir probably deserved more anyhow. He tried not to pester the local guard or the newcomers too much, though he hungered for more information on what change their arrival must make to the situation. He sharpened his sword, polished his armor, checked in on Galithil, and looked for any other outlet for his growing suspense. The occasional conversation with Finduilas had become almost soothing in comparison.

Finally, a day after Prince Fingon arrived, they had their answer. "We're going after them!" he told Finduilas in his excitement the next time he saw her, though he suspected she'd already heard, having kept as close an ear out the past several days as he had.

" _ You _ are?" she clarified. She seemed--apprehensive?

"Yes! King Felagund gave all of us leave to go if we wanted, and your father is sending anyone who's willing." She frowned at that for some reason. "Gelmir's coming too, and three or for of the others from Nargothrond." His brother had not perhaps Gwindor's same eagerness to fight, but he was a competent and experienced warrior and Gwindor was more than pleased to have him by his side. 

"I suppose you'll not be here for much longer then."

He nodded. "We're to leave at dawn two days from now. Half of the force will be tasked with driving off or destroying as many of the things as they can, and the other half will be escorting some of the local settlers back here for their protection." It seemed like a solid plan, and though he would of course serve in whatever capacity he was asked to, he hoped to see some real action. 

"But it's the middle of the growing season!" Finduilas replied immediately. "They'll be in trouble if they're away from their farms for too long."

That was true, though he hadn't thought of it. It was very like Finduilas though, to always be seeing how people's lives fit into all these grand strategies. She really was an amazing person. "Do you think we'll have trouble convincing them to leave?"

"They respect my father, or at least Uncle Finrod. And Fingon will be there as well. Most of them will go if asked. I suppose we'll just have to take care of everyone as best we can and hope that there's enough stores to get through this winter if the worst happens."

"At least they'll be safe from whatever's out there."

"Yes, I'm sure that was my father's reasoning," Finduilas agreed with a distant look.

For the next two days, Minas Tirith scrambled like a disturbed ant colony with all the necessary preparations. Gwindor lent a hand wherever he could, anything to ensure their departure was not delayed, while Finduilas kept busy arranging for the influx of refugees that was soon to come.

Anyone not occupied checking gear or packing supplies could usually be found giving their fighting skills a last polishing up; one or more sparring matches was almost always going on in the yard outside the barracks on the northern slope of the island.

The afternoon before they left found Gwindor, Gelmir, and young Lord Rodnor among a small audience that had gathered to watch as Prince Fingon faced off against a series of challengers. He was fascinating to watch--swift and powerful, an awesome whirlwind of black and gold. He clearly had the upper hand on nearly all of them, but was using the opportunity to teach more than to show off. Gelmir spent nearly the entire time alternating between staring intently, looking away in embarrassment, muttering to himself and moving to leave, and turning instead to watch some more.

After falling back and bowing briefly to his latest partner, the prince sauntered directly over to them while still catching his breath, pointed to Gwindor and said, "You're the one Finrod won't shut up about, aren't you? Remind me of your name?"

"Ah--Gwindor son of Guilin, your highness," Gwindor stammered.

"Banloth's kid, that's right. Want to go?" he asked, cocking his head back into the courtyard.

Gwindor couldn't say "yes" fast enough. He grabbed a thick wooden staff to match the one the prince was holding, tested its weight as he walked, and fell into a ready stance across from Fingon, every muscle primed.

Fingon blocked his first few, exploratory attacks with the minimum effort necessary, then responded with a few introductory strikes of his own. Once they had the measure of each other, they laid on more earnestly, picking up speed, but neither one more than grazing the other.

"Good!" Fingon called when they disengaged for the first time to reappraise each other. "Oh, just excellent. Finrod was right, you really are a superb fighter." Gwindor's elation at this double source of praise was moderated when he added, "Watch your left foot, though, you'll get more power out of that side if you place it properly."

He nodded--he knew he was sloppy with footework sometimes--and wiped a hand across his brow. Even this far north, the heat of the clear summer day was becoming oppressive, and Fingon had long since stripped himself to the waist in response. Gwindor checked to make sure the company was appropriate--there were a few female soldiers around, but they hardly counted, they'd adopted similar states of undress themselves--and did likewise, tossing his clothing in Gelmir's direction and trusting him to take care of it.

He and Fingon came at each other with more intensity than before, and if the prince wasn't now pulling out every trick he knew, Gwindor was, and revelled in the thrill of fighting at this level. Swing, duck, step to the side--no, a bit further back, get your feet under you--jab, there's the opening, see if you can trip him up, of course he saw it coming, block, block--

"There you are, Rodnor! I needn't ask what you're doing out here, but Master Golhir expected you in the library nearly an hour ago!"

He recognized instantly the voice that had wrapped itself around his heart over the past few weeks, and the distraction was enough that he failed to block the third incoming blow, which proceeded to connect solidly with the side of his head.

He lost a second or two entirely but managed to stay on his feet, barely. "Ai, Gwindor, I'm sorry!" Fingon was saying. Gwindor waited until his eyes would focus again and stood up straight, communicating with his hands that he was fine, although words were still a bit difficult. He let Fingon take his staff, check him over and proclaim him not too badly injured. "Take it easy tonight, though. I want you sharp-eyed and ready tomorrow morning."

"Yes, your highness," Gwindor managed, and began to stumble back to where Gelmir waited, his brother still poised as if deciding whether to rush over and intervene.

But his brother was not the first one to ask "Oh, Gwindor, are you alright?"

He whipped his head around fast enough to make himself dizzy again. She was still here, of course she was. When everything stopped spinning, he assured her, "It's nothing," and smiled and did his best to act like it.

"I'm relieved to hear it," she said, and smiled back, but at the same time fidgeted with her skirt and seemed intent on looking anywhere but in his direction. He couldn't quite comprehend why the sudden return to diffidence, until Gelmir hit him in the chest with his own shirt. 

Well.

Prince Fingon returned from putting their weapons away. "Afternoon, cousin," he greeted Finduilas. "I apologize for keeping Rodnor. If I'd known he was supposed to be somewhere else, I would have shooed him along."

"It's no problem. He knew very well where he was supposed to be." She didn't seem to be at all troubled by the prince's lack of clothing, though he supposed that could be down to his being family.

"I--um--that was quite an impressive demonstration, your highness," Gelmir spoke up, uncommonly (but not unexpectedly) inarticulate. "The way you handled--ah--that is-- It will be an honor to follow you tomorrow."

"You are--Gwindor's brother, yes?"

"Yes, your highness. Gelmir son of Guilin."

"Well, I'll be pleased to have the two of you beside me. Take care of him tonight, will you?"

"Of course, your highness."

After spending the intervening hours before dinner idle at Gelmir's insistence (and their mother's, once he divulged the tale to her), Gwindor escaped for an hour to accomplish one last errand. He tracked down a local swordsmith who he'd heard dabbled in jewelry and, after more deliberation than was warranted by the limited selection, purchased a silver pendant inlaid with lapis lazuli. The gray-blue of the headwaters of the Narog mixed with the bright blue of Finduilas's eyes, all shot through with the glinting gold of her hair. It would do.

He almost felt like he was ready to gift it to her in person, but perhaps out of habit, or some sort of superstition, he decided to leave her one last present in secret. When he returned victorious, he'd tell her how he felt.

Gwindor in his excitement woke in plenty of time to prepare the next morning without any prodding from his brother. He accepted one last kiss from his father and word of advice from his mother, then he and Gelmir helped each other into their armor and mounted up to wait with the others in front of the west bridge.

He had never reserved much place for religious sentiment--his father had remained on, and his mother returned to this side of the Sea because they wanted more than what the Valar had to offer, and they had raised him accordingly. But he felt a strong urge to thank  _ someone _ or  _ something _ when, in the dim pre-dawn, he saw Finduilas one last time, standing next to her father to bid well-faring to those departing.

When he caught her eye and she immediately rushed in his direction, he bent all his will to quelling Galithil's excited pawing so that he might speak to her uninterrupted.

"Thank you for doing this," she said, looking up at him. She wasn't wearing the pendant, he managed to determine   without seeming (he hoped) too much like he was staring at her chest, as attractive a temptation as that would have been. He told himself not to be disappointed. There could be any number of reasons why, and it could hardly reflect poorly on her feelings for him when he hadn't even had the decency to let her know who it was from.

"My pleasure," he replied, truthfully. His greatest satisfaction in life came from purifying the land of Morgoth's foul creatures. Surely she knew by now how much he'd longed for this chance.

"Thank you all the same." She reached out, hesitated, then placed one hand lightly on his. He probably couldn't really feel the warmth of it through his heavy gloves, but he wanted to believe he could. "Please stay as safe as you can. I--I can't bear to even think of you getting hurt." Her voice grew hoarse and he thought he saw a tear or two glinting in light of the rising sun.

She cared for him. She had to. He grieved that he had no time for him to pour out to her everything filling up his chest right now. "I will. I promise," he said, and vowed to himself that he would live to confess his feelings to her as soon as he returned.

But for now, he faced forward and followed the line of mounted soldiers out across the bridge, allowing himself to look back only once to see Finduilas watching him still.


	4. Refuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwindor and Finduilas have to cope with the fact that the more you get to know someone, the more likely there is to be friction, especially under stressful circumstances.

Once the last soldier had ridden out of sight, Finduilas wiped her eyes and berated herself for getting so emotional over someone she hadn't even know for very long. She still hadn't figured out who her mystery suitor was--and they'd moved on to leaving her  _ jewelry _ just last night--yet she was skirting dangerously close to openly proclaiming her affection for another man anyway.

Well, he was away now anyhow, and she would do well to put him out of her mind until he returned. If the tower were to be receiving an unknown number of displaced persons, she would have enough to keep her mind and hands occupied.

Working with her mother and, to a lesser extent her father, she tried to plan as much as she could before they knew exactly who was coming. She'd had a chance to meet most of the Elves who lived along this part of the border at some point in her life, but the Men were less familiar to her. She remembered being introduced to some as a child when the first settlers had arrived, but they changed so quickly; their lands must be occupied by their children or their children's children by now.

If any of those came here, they would likely have children of their own with them. The Noldor had produced almost none among themselves since their arrival, and even the Sindar, long accustomed to surviving in Morgoth's shadow, had feared to produce more than a few children in the recent long-years. Finduilas and her brother were a rarity, their parents spurred on by some undisclosed foreknowledge; Gelmir and Gwindor were among the few elves near their age in western Beleriand. Finduilas could only hope that her experience with Rodnor would translate well enough to mortal children.

She didn't know how much Sindarin the Men had picked up while living here, and she knew only a handful of words in their language. Her father, she'd learned recently, spoke little more than that, having more or less left the Men to do as they pleased in his lands. She was glad she'd talked Uncle Finrod, who'd devoted himself to learning every language of Men he encountered ever since he'd discovered them, into staying behind to translate.

She took stock of what what stores they had of food and clothing, and assigned several extra people to assist with cooking from among those who either had some talent at it or at least took directions well. Her mother checked their supplies of herbs and tinctures and ensured that the healers were well prepared and provided with assistants of their own, should anyone arrive having already been injured by the encroaching beasts or anything else. Before long, she'd gone over everything a second and desultory third time and had to admit she had nothing left to do but wait.

She found herself looking out from the top of the tower more in the ensuing days than she had in almost the entire rest of her life. She'd never had much reason to before; she may have occasionally wondered what was going on farther out than she could see, but everything dear to her heart could be found on this island. Now, even though she couldn't possibly expect Gwindor and the rest of the company back for days, if not weeks, she more and more often spent her idle moments climbing the myriad stone steps and gazing north.

In that time, no new gifts of unknown provenance were forthcoming. Perhaps their giver had given up their quest as hopeless before they'd even really tried talking to her, which Finduilas found vaguely sad. Or, equally likely, they'd been among those who had gone off to battle, and their attentions would resume when everyone returned, assuming they survived. Strange how someone she knew nothing about other than their poetic talents and taste in jewelry could with a mere hypothetical evoke so sharp a sympathy in her. She wished them well, whoever they were.

In the end, she finally succeeded in distracting herself working on a bit of embroidery that had lain neglected since earlier that spring and thus neither saw the incoming party from afar nor heard they were coming until they were almost crossing the bridge. Her mother had to send Rodnor to retrieve her once she was needed to begin organizing and directing people.

Twenty-one Elves and thirty-eight Men: not the absolute limit of what they'd be able to support, but somewhat more than their likeliest expectation. Among the Elves, only Lossion could be considered a child, and he was nearly full-grown. Among the Men, on the other hand, over half of their number were nowhere near adulthood, the youngest less than a year old.

Her father formally welcomed them all and assured them they could expect all the hospitality his house could provide. He'd warned their existing guests that they might have to be moved around some to make room for everyone, and most had been graciously understanding (her mother having had firm words with the rest.) It looked like Rodnor might be rooming with her for the foreseeable future, although things would not be so tight that the two of them would have to move in with their parents.

She started by dividing people into groups in the courtyard, trying to keep families from becoming separated and flagging down Uncle Finrod any time she needed to say something more complicated than "Please wait here for now," to one of the Men. Her mother, meanwhile, pulled aside anyone who looked in need of healing, of which there were thankfully few among the non-combatants.

The soldiers who had guarded their escape had not made out quite as well, which was of course their job, but didn't make the various heavily bandaged heads and splinted limbs any easier to see.

Her mother shuffled these off to the healers just as efficiently, so much so in fact that Finduilas nearly missed one in particular. She had grouped everyone together that would be roomed together and was just about to attach each party a guide from the household to assist them settling in, when she saw Rodnor crossing the courtyard leading a horse she would swear was Galithil. She stepped back and scanned the crowd, but didn't see what she was looking for among the hale soldiers still present. But that one, following her mother into the keep, could that be…?

She dithered for a moment over whether she should abandon her responsibility in favor of finding out just a few moments sooner whether it was really him. Then she hurriedly informed the rest of her helpers that she trusted them to distribute themselves successfully among those in need of aid, and rushed toward the tail end of her mother's party, just disappearing into the tower.

She caught up to them as they reached the set of rooms set aside for the injured, and now she was almost certain. "Gwindor?" she said softly as she came up beside him, frowning as she got a good look at his upper arm, wrapped in thick, dark-stained bandages and securely bound to his side.

His reaction seemed slower than she might have expected, but he smiled broadly when he saw her. "Finduilas! I didn't expect to see you quite so soon. Sorry I didn't exactly keep my promise."

"What happened?" she tried not to make it sound like a demand, anxious as she was to know.

"Oh--it looks worse than it is," he assured her, though the sheen of sweat on his face and the wince as he attempted to shrug nonchalantly called that into question. "A few of those creatures ambushed us a couple of nights back and next thing I knew I was up to my shoulder in one's jaws. I did figure out how to wedge a knife into a weak point in its carapace while I was there, though. Should make it easier for the rest of our squad to take them down." He cast a wistful gaze northward.

"I'm glad you at least made it back alive."

"Yes, I suppose I did. The field medic we had with us put a few stitches in me, and I didn't think it would take too long to heal up, but being down an arm had me at enough of a disadvantage in the meantime that His Royal Highness wanted me to head back with the escort group." His disappointment was obvious. "At least between the two of us we convinced Gelmir to stay on."

"He wanted to come back as well?" She could understand the reasoning; if Rodnor had sustained a wound like that she wouldn't have let him out of her sight for anything.

Gwindor nodded. "I don't think I could have talked him into it myself no matter how much I argued, but the prince barely had to ask once and he had Gelmir's devoted obedience." He chuckled and shook his head. "He must have it so bad."

Finduilas tried to make sense of that--he made it sound almost like a romantic infatuation--but evaded the embarrassment of saying anything ignorant out loud as she belatedly realized that if they'd been raised with enough Sindarin culture it very well could be. 

Her mother appeared at the doorway where they lingered. "Come along, young one. Naegnest needs to see to that arm before it falls off," she said, guiding him effortlessly by the shoulders despite her much shorter stature. To Finduilas she merely pursed her lips and gave her a look. They knew each other well enough for her to understand it as "I trust you to make your own decisions, but you aren't making the correct one right now." 

Finduilas nodded, yet still dallied just outside the door until Gwindor completely disappeared from her view and she could no longer hear his footsteps. Only the did she start back to see how well or badly the quartering of refugees had gone without her.

She didn't make it tens steps  without being waylaid by Lady Banloth. The faint, colorful stains on her fingertips suggested she had been painting, something she had been doing a lot of lately as an alternative to worrying about her sons. "Everything's gotten so busy again. Did something happen?" she asked. 

"The people from the outlying settlements have arrived with their escort. I was just on my way to see to them." And she should probably be told, if she was as uninformed as she seemed, "Gwindor was with them. He wasn't very badly injured--he was at least able to stand up," Lady Banloth's eyes widened, and Finduilas grimaced; she was trying to give accurate information without frightening the woman. "He's being seen to right now, just down there." She pointed back toward the healers' rooms.

Lady Banloth nodded, but didn't hurry off. "I might just be in the way, if I go in, don't you think? I could wait--" she glanced back the way she had come.

Finduilas was sorry to admit she might be right. With the number of people that had suddenly been dropped on her, Naegnest might not appreciate extra visitors taking up space while she was working. But Finduilas herself would have found a way to stay if she hadn't been needed elsewhere. "Your his mother, I'm sure it wouldn't hurt to ask," she said, although she was afraid some of her unsureness had shown through.

Lady Banloth deliberated silently, then something seemed to occur to her. "Is Gelmir with him?"

"No, he said Gelmir stayed out with the rest who are still out fighting."

"Did he?" A tiny frown creased her brow.

"Apparently Fingon asked him personally to stay on," Finduilas tried to explain without devolving into what could be considered gossip.

"Oh." She looked toward the healers' rooms once more. "Perhaps I'll let them finish anyhow, before I impose myself on them." She drifted back down the corridor toward her room.

She was probably right, although her reaction seemed a little odd. Not that it was any of Finduilas’s business. She hurried along herself, determined  not to let anything else get in her way.

 

* * *

 

Obviously, if Gwindor had needed to, he could have found the strength to defend those in need of his protection despite far greater injuries than this. But for the first three or four days after he arrived back at Minas Tirith, he gratefully obeyed the orders of the soft-spoken but intense healer who instructed him was to rest, recover, and under no circumstances try to use his right arm. He slept more than he was used to and endured his mother's intermittent ministrations and his father's attempts to entertain him with impromptu bits of poetry. 

During much of his free time, he ran the scenario that had led to his injury over and over in his head. He didn't regret what he'd done or think he'd performed completely reprehensibly. Yet there had to be something he could learn from the experience. Some way he could improve, so that next time he would come out still able to fight.

Eventually, he thought he'd gleaned a few ways his tactics could have been better, a few techniques he could practice to have them quicker at the ready the next time. Before long, his energy returned and provoked him to restlessness. He hung around the tower sentinels hungry for information the way he had before he'd left, but now it only reminded him where Gelmir was and he wasn't. He had his fill of it long before he made a nuisance of himself. He visited a few of the injured who had returned with him, but they mostly all had the same problem, and they only irritated each other.

He tried not to feel too disappointed that Finduilas hadn't come to see him for more than a few minutes once or twice since he'd talked to her the first day of his return. He knew she was busy with all the tower's temporary inhabitants. That she remembered him at all ought to give him joy, and it did, but mostly it left him wanting more.

While he didn't blame himself too much for getting injured, he  _ had  _ broken his promise to her and himself, and no longer felt as motivated to reveal all his feelings to her. At least not just yet, when he was already in so pitiful a state. Yet neither had he any more desire to leave her secret tokens of affection as he had before. Not only because the level of stealth he'd previously employed in delivering them required more physical ability than he currently had the capacity for. He'd come to a new recognition that while such expressions had been meaningful to  _ him _ , they couldn't mean nearly as much to her. He thought he could do better than that now. At least in some small way.

After the first few days he had to admit to himself that, among his desultory meanderings about the tower, he was seeking her out. Placing himself where he expected her to be. When he was with her, at least he could focus on something other than his own lack of usefulness. At first he merely talked to her as she worked at some or another of the constant tasks before her. She never showed visible annoyance at his presence, so he could hope he was not being distracting or getting in her way.

She began inviting him to contribute in small ways, task noticeably within his current ability. Run a message just down the hall, hold this in place for a moment, fetch a tool from across the room. Things even child could accomplish, but he was almost giddy with delight to be of service to her.

"Do you want to come to the library with me?" she asked one morning. "I've learned that some of the mortal children have never learned to read--even the ones who are twelve or thirteen years old, which is quite on the way to adulthood for Men, you know. Anyway, I thought I'd teach them a bit while they're here. I thought maybe--if you'd like--you could assist me?"

"Oh, yes, I'd love to. If you think that's something that would benefit them."

They began to make their way down the somewhat more crowded corridor. "It will keep them occupied for a few hours, anyway. And maybe it won't get put to much use on a farm but it just seems such a shame not even to have the possibility of knowing something so useful." She pursed her lips suddenly. "Please don't let my mother know I put it quite like that. Plenty of people in her clan never bothered to learn any kind of writing, and she still sometimes laments the next generation's reluctance to memorize hours of historical epics the way she did."

"There's a beauty in that, I think, but I agree being able to read and write has its uses as well."

She smiled. "Yes. How else could charming anonymous poetry get left outside my door, for instance."

Gwindor's mind completely ceased functioning for a few seconds. He couldn't breathe. Did she know? He wasn't ready for this. He had to pretend he had no idea what she was talking about, but he was a terrible liar in person. 

But as he started moving his lips to say something, anything, she hastily covered her mouth with one hand. "That's--probably not something I should be speaking to you about. Sorry. It's just--personal  business."

"I heard nothing," he agreed as relief washed through him. And to quickly change the subject, "So are we teaching them Feanorian or Daeronic?" He was fully literate in both and would be surprised if she wasn't. Everything he'd written to her so far had been in Feanorian; he had to admit he just found it prettier.

She pushed open the library doors as they reached them. "Well, it's going to come off as a little political either way, isn't it, but I think Feanorian. Most of the books we have are written in it--most books in general are, outside the Girdle, so it will be of more use. And--" she looked almost apologetic, "it's just more systematic, so I think it will be easier to teach."

" 'Why do those damned kinslayers have to make such useful things?' I must hear that from my father at least once a week."

"In front of my uncle? Or my goodness, even your mother." Finduilas ducked into an alcove to collect slates and chalk and proceeded to a table where several mortal children and a few of their parents were gathered.

The difference was, King Felagund, as all well knew, had not participated in the slaughter of his kindred on the far western shore. Gwindor's mother could not claim so much. However that fact lay between his parents, their children witnessed only scant clues--but he didn't know how much Finduilas knew about all that.

"I think the king finds it funny," he replied, which was true, and let Finduilas introduce herself, their lesson, and the letter  _ tinco _ .

 

* * *

 

Of course he found Finduilas just as heart-pounding, beautiful and fascinating as he always had, but for the first time he began to notice that, well, she was her own person with her own opinions. And it wasn't even that he disagreed with her, exactly, just that it surprised him, sometimes, when she said something he wouldn't have expected of her. He supposed it was inevitable that the more he succeeded in his goal if becoming close to her,  the more the reality of her would supplant the ideal. And it wasn't that he disliked it. It was just--something to think about.

They continued to see each other often, and kept each other informed of all they could learn about what went on outside the tower. The scouts and lookouts talked to him a little more freely than they did her, while she had gradually grown bolder in plying her father for any information he would give her. Still, the unknown remained far larger than either of them liked.

Thus it was that he rose one morning--much farther behind the rising of the sun than he would have uninjured--to find Finduilas waiting for him just behind his door. "Good morning," he greeted her, groggily double-checking that he looked at least somewhat presentable.

"Oh! There you-- sorry, I didn't--um, good morning," she replied, twisting her hands. "I didn't want to wake you, but I thought you would want to know--I just heard--"

"What's wrong?" he asked as he shut the door behind him. All of Gelmir's things had been moved in there to save space, and she didn't need to see what a mess it was.

She took a deep breath. "They caught sight of the rest of Fingon's party, just at dawn. Still in pursuit of the hordes of the Enemy. Coming this way"

Gwindor clenched his right hand reflexively, and his stomach twisted at how weak it still was, barely responding to his will. He knew already he wouldn't find a single person who would support him riding to their aid no matter how much he wanted to. 

Still, he couldn't keep from doing some quick tactical calculation. "Elf-sight from the top of the tower is three or four days out for a swift rider. And those things are fast, but not that fast. They should have plenty of time to finish them long before they reach here."

"I know. And yet I'm frightened," she admitted softly, and Gwindor thought his heart might rend itself in pieces.  _ What good was he _ , if he couldn't save her from that? "We took responsibility for all these people, but if the worst did happen, what could I possibly do to protect them?"

No--that wasn't right--she wasn't supposed to  _ understand _ . And yet he felt oddly comforted that she did. "I'm sorry I can't do more."

"Actually, I wanted to ask you--I know it wouldn't make any real difference in just a few days. But I think I might feel better if I at least knew enough about handling a weapon that I could--point it in the direction I meant to without injuring myself. I know you're still recovering, but even if you could just talk me through it. It would at least be better than nothing."

"I--yes, absolutely, of course I will. Whatever you want," he answered before he could think of a reason not to.

"Thank you so much," she answered sincerely. "Shall we meet together over by the barracks in a couple of hours? I need to make sure everyone is getting a chance to do their laundry, first. We had a system, but, well, you know how those things go.

"Never bother planning farther out than the end of your sword, as my old trainer used to say. I'll see you around noon, then." Some term of endearment got caught on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't shake it loose, and so he silently watched her nod to him and walk away.

He spent the next two hours checking equipment and trying to come up with the best combination of skills he could give her in a short amount of time. He had far more experience as a student than as a teacher, and hoped it would not be too difficult to explain things given the almost instinctive way he understood them.

Finduilas arrived just before the sun reached its zenith, and Gwindor was not too surprised to see Rodnor trailing behind her. Gwindor had been somewhat older than that when he started simple training exercises, but the world only increased in danger. Finduilas wore riding clothes similar to those she’d worn the first time they’d gone out riding together, which looked like they should allow enough freedom of movement for today’s activities. That they also quite fetchingly outlined her figure was something Gwindor would have to deal with on his own.

He handed each of his students a wooden staff. "I've decided that in this circumstance, it would be most useful to teach you spear forms. It’s a weapon that’s not too difficult to learn quickly. Plus, it turns out fighting those creatures has more than a little in common with hunting wild boar, which is something I wish we'd known before we left."

"How big are they?" Rodnor wanted to know."

"Well, they're built sort of low to the ground, just about so high," he indicated a level somewhere between his waist and knees, "but also half again as long as I am tall, and they can rear up about half their body length, so they have a pretty good striking range that you have to watch out for--" He noticed Finduilas's grip on her staff tighten. "Not that it is likely you will need to know any of that."

"But the possibility  _ is _ why we're here," she noted.

"Shall we begin then?" He took a staff for himself in his left hand and began to demonstrate. He showed them how to set their feet and, with some modification in deference to his injury, how perform a handful of simple strikes and blocks.

Rodnor, despite his youth, took to the spear like a duck to water, and Gwindor found himself able to set him to basic drills with only the occasional pointer on how he could improve his technique. Finduilas, on the other hand, proceeded more slowly. She seemed to be having trouble translating what she saw and heard to the movement of her body, and would focus on one limb while neglecting the others in a way that left her unable to successfully execute the required movement as a whole. Certain moves he was only sketching the general motion of while describing vocally how it actually ought to look, and Finduilas just didn't seem to be able to manage to imagine it.

"No, no, it's  _ three _ steps, left right left  _ then _ thrust," he told her when she'd made the same mistake for the third time in a row.

"That's what I did!" she protested.

"No, you--" He could see what she was doing wrong, but it was hard to describe. "If you move your arms forward while your weight is still on your back foot, you won't get nearly as much force behind it.”

She started to try it again, but he stopped her almost immediately. "Wait, hold up, now you've got your feet the wrong way around--"

She planted the end of her staff in the ground, leaned against it and growled in frustration. He felt sorry for her even if he couldn't exactly relate, his own training having gone far more like Rodnor's experience. He supposed he could just drop it and move on, but she had asked him to teach her, and he was committed to doing a good job of it. "Don't worry. Sometimes it just takes time." he tried to reassure her.

It wasn't what she wanted to hear. "If I can't even remember something this simple, how will I survive once I'm on my own?"

Exactly what kind of trouble was she imagining she'd be in? "You won't necessarily be alone. I can and will stay by your side whenever you need me" A bit forward, perhaps, but heartfelt.

"As much as I enjoy your company, it's not a substitute for taking responsibility for thorough preparation."

That stung. "I'm sorry it's gotten to the point where you don't trust me to protect you--" He knew even as he spoke that not a quarter of the bitterness in his voice was due to her or her words.  A part of him seemed to watch over his shoulder in horror at the unfolding of everything he'd feared. But the intense need to make her understand pushed the words out of him anyway.

"That's not it! Of course I trust you! I only meant that there may come a time when I have only myself to rely on, and I would like to be able to protect myself."

" _ Nobody _ is capable of protecting themselves all on their own. On the battlefield, everyone relies on each other. You don't spurn any help you can get."

She took a deep breath. Her next words were calmer "I suppose none of us could survive without help from many others. But I would like to both help  _ and _ be helped, not just one or the other."

'I'm sorry," he said more sincerely. "I'll admit I wasn't thinking of you that way. It must be hard."

"Well, and I need to remember that this was always going to be more about a symbolic gesture toward my own peace of mind than being actually effective. I suppose I'm just not used to failing at something when there's so much at stake."

"You haven't failed yet. And I'm happy to teach you for as long as I'm still here. You could become quite respectable if you work hard."

"Hey, Fils?" Rodnor interjected. He'd broken off his own practice at some point during their disagreement. "It's sort of like getting on a horse, you know? You always mount from the same side?" He demonstrated, emphasizing the leading up steps. "You just have to do it until it feels natural." 

With that bit of perspective, the lesson proceeded more happily. Finduilas took time to go through each step more slowly until her body really understood it. Gwindor found that, if he couldn't always demonstrate perfectly well himself, Rodnor could often help.

When they’d all been out in the sun almost long enough, he finished off with a few tricks that were more flashy than useful, just for fun. He hesitated halfway through the backward spin; he had distinct memories of how he learned this one, and they involved Captain Nerseth pressing herself right up behind him and guiding him through the rather complicated hand-over-hand motion.

He got Rodnor through it--even one handed it wasn't so hard, the young lord picked it up so fast--and steadfastly refused to let his brain consider what he might be doing one minute in the future. "Yes, that's it, you've got it! Very nice! Now if you'd like to just--show your sister--" he gestured weakly in her direction.

"Could you show me, Gwindor?" she asked, and he could swear there was a spark of invitation of quite a different sort in her eye. 

He stood behind her, left as much room between them as was practical--which was not much at all--reached around her and showed her where to put her hands. After two hours practicing in the summer heat, she smelled like sweat, but also like soap and beneath that a hint of something floral. "Now, right hand  _ up _ \--there, you've got it. Just follow through-- excellent!"

She grinned in triumph. He wouldn't regret it if the last thing he ever saw was her smiling like that. He backed away and let her practice the whole thing on her own at speed a couple of times. 

When she'd finished, she walked over to him, put a hand on his arm and squeezed gently. "Thank you for doing this."

"I'd do anything for you." Well, if he was going to put it that way, why not just tell her everything? But this still did not quite feel like the right time or place, and he let his fear overcome him once again.

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be clear by now that this fic is merely a bunch of romance tropes strung together willy-nilly. It's like the chicken soup of fanfiction: familiar ingredients combind in a familiar way, but hopefully it still manages to warm your heart.


	5. Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Midsummer didn't stop being a thing just because everyone's lives are in danger. Finduilas has a lot of work to do, but fortunately for her, there's this guy who's been desperately following her around for a while...

Finduilas awoke the next morning to the startled realization that only six days remained until Midsummer and she still had a festival to plan. Seeing to the needs of their myriad guests had put it completely out of her head until it was nearly too late. 

She'd assured her mother she could handle the responsibility when she'd asked for it. Doubtless, her mother would understand that circumstances had changed, but she would be unimpressed if midsummer came and went without so much as an  _ attempt _ . She expected more of her daughter; Finduilas expected more of herself. And her mother would still be observing the millennia-old rituals even if there was not a scrap of food or note of music to accompany her.

"Owwwwwww," she groaned as soon as she attempted to get out of bed. Her arms and shoulders were far more sore than they'd been last night. She pushed through the pain, however; she was already making plans for what she would have to do to cover an expanded guest list, and she had no time to coddle herself.

Still, it must have shown in the ginger way she moved, because "Sore?" was the first word out of Gwindor's mouth when he saw her that morning, and by the grin on his face he felt little pity for her condition. He probably had plenty of experience with the phenomenon himself.

"A little," she conceded while retaining her dignity. "Any news from the North?"

"From what I heard, the Enemy's forces are still being delayed fairly effectively. Though there's some question as to whether that's partly due to the Orcs stopping to engage in a bit of property damage."

Finduilas frowned. For a moment she doubted whether it was appropriate for her to care about something as insignificant as a seasonal celebration when people's lives were at risk and their livelihoods being destroyed. She  _ thought _ her mother would say it was. The Sindar had honored the changing seasons all the more defiantly back when they had not even the Sun to protect them, after all.

"How bad is it?" 

"I'm not sure they know except that there's patches of smoke on the horizon of a rather suggestive size."

"All right."

Silence fell between them for a moment before Gwindor asked, "So what  _ do _ you have planned for the day?"

"Oh, well--it turns out the Enemy hasn't managed to prevent Midsummer from coming, so I've still got a festival to plan," she tried to sound at least a little cheerful.

"Ah. Are we still...going forward with that? Even considering…?"

Despite having asked herself the same thing moments before, she found herself defensive at hearing the same doubt from someone else. "My mother wouldn't hear of not at least building a bonfire and saying the prayers to the Valar," was her first argument. "And I for one could use something to look forward to."

"No, you're absolutely right, we all could."

"Although I've let myself fall so far behind with the planning that I almost wish it were a few days farther off," she admitted.

"Oh, well--how can I help?"

With profuse thanks, she made up a list of people to talk to and information to gather and sent him off. For her first task, she walked out to the clearing she'd previously selected for the gathering and evaluated whether it would suffice given their increased numbers. About half of the elves who had been brought here had already been expected to come for midsummer, so the increase in number was not quite as large as it first appeared. On the other hand, if they were blessed enough for the rest of Fingon's forces to return triumphant in the next few days, it would swell their numbers still further.

She'd better plan for the best. Events like this were supposed to be  _ cozy _ , but she was afraid that many people in this clearing would cross over into  _ crowded _ . She was grateful to know that Gwindor was covering half of her to-do list. Otherwise there was no way she could justify spending half the morning tramping up one side of the river and down the other looking for a suitable larger space that would need minimal clearing, which they couldn't spare the workers for.

Eventually she decided they would have to make do with two smaller adjacent clearings with a small stand of trees between them. They could have two bonfires, and the trees shouldn't present too big a barrier to people mingling between them. She returned to the tower and gave new instructions to those who would be gathering wood in preparation.

That done, she found Gwindor for an update. He'd spoken with all of the cooks, crafters and other artisans that she had started coordinating with before everything happened. It sounded like for the most part they were all well aware of the change in what might be asked of them and waiting on her word to either requisition more resources or make what they had already been allotted stretch farther. "Now, you didn't mention musicians--" he went on.

She growled in frustration with herself. There was always one thing she forgot.

"--but I figured you had to  _ have _ some. So I asked around, and tracked them down and they mostly all know who each other are and they've been practicing together and so forth. I think I talked to everyone, except you'd asked Boreth to play viol, and she's still out with the soldiers up north. But someone said there was a fellow called Corlin? Who might substitute if he could be convinced, and I haven't quite gotten to that yet but I thought I might try to spot him at dinner and get him for you."

She hadn't expected him to come through for her quite so thoroughly. It was such a small thing, but she found herself moved almost to tears. "Thank you, Gwindor. You've saved me. I don't know what I'd do without you." She couldn't express her whole heart in words, and nothing would do except to throw propriety out the window and throw her arms around his neck and embrace him.

His first reaction was a small "erk" noise. Then he awkwardly patted her on the back a couple of times. "Of course. I'd never leave you to fail when I could help you succeed."

She backed away before there was too much risk of someone seeing them.

The next afternoon, just when everything was starting to come together, she realized that the Men probably had some midsummer traditions of their own that they would want to observe. She started over to where they were quartered, stopped halfway there and decided it would be better to have Uncle Finrod along, searched half the tower for him, and finally discovered that of course he had been there talking to the Men all along.

Finrod was delighted that she'd thought to include all their guests in the festivities in a way they were familiar with. She ended up sending two of the women up to the kitchens to instruct the cooks in the preparation of a couple of traditional Midsummer dishes she thought they had the ingredients on hand for; a few others volunteered to teach everyone some dances in their accustomed style.

Fingon's forces--and those they fought--drew closer still. Although they had successfully reduced the enemy's numbers, enough orcs and monsters remained to worry her.

The day before midsummer, she rose at dawn to see if she couldn't practice the spear forms one more time an hour or so before diving into directing the setup for the festival.

As she approached the training yard, she noted from afar that someone was there already, moving forcefully through some sort of exercise themselves. First, she worried that she would be asked to explain her presence there when she joined them. Then she thought she recognized the figure and its movements, but told herself that her heart was leading her into foolish imaginings. But as she reached him, she found she had been right after all. It was Gwindor.

It really was a splendorous thing, the way he moved. She stood back and allowed herself the indulgence of just watching for several minutes.

Her inexperienced eye could see no flaw in his technique, but he began to repeat the same series of movements over and over, his face showing greater and greater frustration each time. Finally, he leaned on his staff, breathing heavily, and seemed to look straight past her for several seconds before suddenly noticing her presence. For a moment, he looked almost guilty, as if she'd caught him doing something shameful.

"Good morning," he said with a faint smile. His eyes unfocused momentarily once more before he blinked rapidly back to alertness. "Decided to do some last-minute preparation as well?" He sounded unhappy.

"It feels better to do something. At least I'll have no regrets if the worst happens." She watched him closely as she walked past to acquire a staff of her own. She didn't want to fuss over him where it wouldn't be welcome, but she did wonder whether he was over-exerting himself.

"Hm. Maybe," he not quite agreed. "Alright.

Show me what you remember."

She moved competently through the first two forms he'd taught her, reminding herself that he wouldn't be judging her too harshly and she oughtn't let nerves impair her performance. She only had to quickly shuffle her feet into the correct position once.

"Good! Ready to practice a few blocks?" He swung at her legs, slow and easy.

She swung her own staff to connect, rather awkwardly at first. The force of the hit was surprisingly jarring. "How's that?"

"Not bad, but see if you can aim farther toward the end--you'll get more leverage that way. 

She adjusted her grip slightly to get a better angle, but then had a moment of disorientation as she attempts to watch what Gwindor was doing and put her own hands right at the same time.

"What is it?" he asked as she studied his body trying to see what she was doing differently. She started from his feet and checked each part in turn to see if she was mirroring him properly.

"I'm just trying to see if--" Oh  _ that's _ what it was. Her shoulders were angled like  _ so _ , while his, his were-- Oh dear. "Gwindor, you're bleeding!" A bright red stain had begun to spread across the bandage on his upper arm, growing larger even as she watched.

He covered it with his other hand, frowning when it came away slightly wet and speckled red. "Damn," he muttered.

"I'm so sorry." She wanted to blame herself for encouraging him more than him for being out here in the first place. "Come on, you ought to have Naegnest look at that." He allowed her to take the staff from his hand; she put it away along with her own.

"But she'll ask me how it happened," he protested weakly. Nevertheless, when she took him by the hand to lead him back inside, he followed willingly.

"You should have thought of that before you disobeyed her orders," she allowed herself to go so far in the way of reproach. "It will only get worse if you try to avoid the consequences now."

He responded with a defeated sigh.

She squeezed his hand. "We can only do as much as we're able. It won't do either of us any good to pretend otherwise."

"I know," he whispered sounding almost near tears.

"Let's just focus on what we can do. If-- _ if _ \--Naegnest does not send you straight to bed, I could use some help getting everything ready for tomorrow.

"Anything," he said, with predictable if still flattering devotion, but she mistrusted his increasing pallor.

"Perhaps something that can be done sitting down."

 

_________________

 

Gwindor had reopened his wound a good three or four inches in his search for a way to fight effectively while injured. Naegnest washed it out none too gently with stinging salves, put five new stitches in, and cut him to ribbons with her tongue the entire time.

He was embarrassed more than anything. A loyal soldier had a responsibility to exercise good judgement in the use of all resources, including their own body. Finduilas was right. No good would come of lying to himself.

And perhaps normally he would bristle at her taking charge of him like that, even if everything she did was perfectly logical. But he just couldn't manage any negative feeling at all. It was nice, actually, that continued reminder of how much she cared.

He managed to escape an order to bed rest, although Naegnest securely bound his arm to his chest once more and instructed him not to use it _ at all, under any circumstances,  _ for at least three days _.  _ Thus, he was limited in the ways he could aid Finduilas. But he talked to all her musicians once more, listen to a sample of their work, and gave them a final approval of their readiness to perform the next night.

That done, he joined Finduilas outside supervising wood gathering, pavillion erecting, table arranging, and the hundred other last jobs that someone needed to do. To his annoyance, he found his energy flagging by mid-afternoon, to a level he couldn't ignore. With many apologies and Finduilas's earnest reassurances, he excused himself to go lie down. Just for an hour or so, he told himself, and he would be ready to assist some more.

When he awoke, it was completely dark outside and the area around his room was silent. He looked out his window and had to crane his neck to see the moon, high in the sky. At this point in its cycle, that must mean it was several hours after the late summer sunset.

He wasn't tired at all now, although he was rather hungry--he must have missed dinner. He padded down the hall toward the kitchen to see if there was anything set aside he might make do with, but got distracted by some commotion as he passed by the stairs to the watch station at the top of the tower. 

He climbed the first few steps and asked the first person he saw, "Did something happen?"

The elf grinned. "You want to go up and see?" He tossed his head invitingly up the stairs then pushed past Gwindor to wherever he'd been off to.

Gwindor paced himself but eventually made it to the top of the tower. By custom, no fire or other light was ever lit at the summit of Minas Tirith except in direst emergency; its purpose was to see and not to be seen. In the light of the moon, Gwindor could distinguish both their forces and the enemy, less than ten miles away. The remainder of the orcs and four--five actually--of those beasts had fallen back into some low hills while the elves camped for the night on a nearby plain.

"There they go!" someone whispered in excitement. The orcs were in motion, driving their monstrous charges forward. Gwindor's heart sank as he recognized the beginning of an ambush, and he couldn't understand the generally jovial attitude of those around him. He wondered how to politely ask what he was obviously missing.

One woman noticed his confusion. "Over there," she took him by the shoulder and pointed to a shallow gully further west where he could just detect the subtlest movement. "A trap?" he murmured. 

She nodded. "If we're lucky they'll all be drawn out and everyone will be back home by next afternoon."

He watched transfixed as the skirmish played out. Whoever devised this plan, he decided, deserved the highest commendation, and every soldier on that field, praise for their fearless precision in executing it. They must have let those orcs get close enough to feel their breath before they sprung their attack. Valar willing, one of the tiny figures out there was Gelmir. 

A muted cheer went around the group as one, then another, then another of the creatures fell. The enemy forces succumbed faster and faster as they became more and more outnumbered.

"I think that was the last one," someone said at last, and indeed the only bodies still standing seemed to be elven ones.

Someone started passing around a bottle of wine, but before Gwindor had to decide whether to drink on an empty stomach, it was deftly intercepted by the watch commander. "Everyone who's not currently on duty, go to bed," he ordered. "This might be over, or it might not be. We're still on doubled watch until milord says otherwise."

A line of people shuffled down the stairs. Gwindor still brimmed with excitement. He couldn't possibly sleep, and he didn't continue his quest for the kitchen either. He was rounding the corner into a familiar corridor on his way to let Finduilas know the good news before he considered that it was not at all proper for him to be showing up at a maiden's bedroom door in the middle of the night.

She would want to know, though, wouldn't she? She'd been so worried these past few days. She'd sleep better--after he woke her and let her go back to bed--knowing that the danger had passed.

Maybe he'd just check. He approached her door and tapped lightly on it. 

"Yes?" she answered immediately. She hadn't been sleeping at all, poor girl.

"It's Gwindor. There's news from the north. Good news," he added. It would be cruel to keep her in suspense.

She opened her door, loose-haired and wearing only a thin undyed shift and an embroidered dressing gown she was still tying closed. "What happened?"

"They're all gone. The enemy forces, I mean, we think they've been completely eradicated. I watched the final battle myself from the top of the tower."

That took a moment to set in. " _ Oh _ ." She almost collapsed with relief, leaning against her doorframe while he hesitated as to whether it would be appropriate to offer her his support in her current state of undress. "How many did we lose?" was her first question once she'd recovered her breath.

"I'm really not sure, I apologize. I wasn't allowed to watch any of the cleanup."

"So you don't know whether they'll be coming straight back either?"

"I...I don't, sorry," he answered, bringing his attention back to her. He had been momentarily distracted by the sight behind her of a familiar-looking lapis pendant hanging on a stand on her dressing table, next to a couple of pieces of folded paper and a bouquet of dried flowers. "But I imagine they will, if they really think the immediate danger has passed, if only to regroup and recover. They were only about ten miles away." He really had to just tell her. Tomorrow night, for sure. It would be the perfect moment.

"Well, that will push us to my highest estimate for guest count," she smiled brilliantly, "but I couldn't be happier for it. I'll just have to tell everyone in the morning."

After a moment or two, he took that as his invitation to let her be. "I'll see you then." He went so far as to take her hand for a moment before taking his leave.

He experienced a moment of sheer terror when he passed her mother in the corridor moments later. "Hm. I was going to let her sleep," was her only comment on his presence.

In the morning it was confirmed that Fingon and his band were on their way south at an easy but steady pace and, if nothing went amiss, would arrive before nightfall. Finduilas, her fears under control, now put all her energy into supervising cooking, decorating, and making sure one more time everyone knew where they ought to be and when.

Gwindor was much more help to her once he'd been to the top of the tower one last time when the returning force was close enough that he could pick Gelmir out for sure, looking substantially unhurt.

That done, he found himself with more than enough to occupy him for several hours, even when Finduilas made sure they sat down and ate a quick lunch in the middle of it all. 

He was out across the river supervising a trio of mortal children in picking a few more fresh blackberries when a hand landed on his shoulder, and he smelled sweat and road dust. "Here you are!" Gelmir said. "They must be keeping you even busier than we were, out on the field."

Neither of them embraced the other as hard as they would have liked--Gwindor being down an arm and Gelmir not wanting to do him further injury. But the love was all still there.

"Thank you for coming home safe," said Gwindor. Up close, he could se a variety of half-healed scrapes crossing his brother's body, including a decent-sized gash across his left cheek, but nothing more serious than that.

"Well, thank you for putting together what looks like a very hospitable welcome!"

"Oh, that's all Finduilas, I'm just here to help." Gwindor turned to look behind him to make sure the youngest girl was still in sight.

"There's no better way to win someone's affection than to be useful to them."

"I at least try to be a good friend to her."

That got a slight frown. "She turn you down after all?"

"No, no, it's just that--we haven't really discussed anything of that sort, and I want to see her succeed regardless of how she feels about me--"

Gelmir stared at the sky in exasperation. "You haven't told her  _ yet _ ?"

"I'm going to do it tonight. Promise."

"You do it or I'll do it for you."

Well if that didn't motivate him nothing would.

He met Finduilas in the festival clearing on the way back. "What's next?" he asked her as the children placed their baskets of blackberries on a table and ran off to wade in the river.

Finduilas looked around at everything. "I think we're done," she admitted. "I may just have time to go get dressed."

Gwindor hadn't put much previous thought into what he would wear himself. But at Gelmir's insistence and with his help, he managed to get into something suitably nice looking, carefully accounting for his injured arm. His brother even braided his hair for him in an appropriately festive style before somehow making himself just as presentable in the small time that was left.

At the last minute, Gwindor wondered if he ought to have some new gift for Finduilas, if he were going to tell her all his feelings tonight. Well, there was no time now, the festivities started promptly at sunset, and he certainly wouldn't impress her by being late.

Gwindor, Gelmir, and their parents arrived just as the bonfires were being lit. There was Finduilas, across the clearing, greeting everyone as they arrived with her customary grace and charm.

He'd never really stopped thinking of her as the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but he thought he'd at least gotten used to the sight of her enough to be capable of continuing to act like a person in her presence. Now, however, that ability once again vanished completely. He could stare at her for years upon years and not have his fill of her loveliness.

She wore a Noldorin-style wrapped robe of sky blue silk patterned with leaves and flowers in a riot of colors that perfectly embodied the abundance of the summer season. Her hair cascaded down her neck in curls that shone like a river of molten gold in the growing firelight. 

And she was wearing the necklace he'd given her in secret. Did she know, had she figured it out somehow? Or did she wear it hoping to draw out the giver, whoever he might be? It didn't matter. It suited her exactly as well as he hoped it would, and it was a blessing merely to see her in it.

In due time, she reached him and he got his turn to have her clasp his hand and smile. "Don't you look nice!" she said, smoothing a hand across his chest before drawing back and ducking her head shyly. "Thank you again. I couldn't have made this happen without you."

He was aware he ought to respond, but to be  _ touched _ by such a vision was more than he could handle, and speaking even a simple "You're welcome" seemed a feat beyond him.

"You're beautiful," he blurted, which had the advantage of being the whole of his thought at the time.

"Thank you!" she said and seemed to truly appreciate the clumsy compliment. "Sorry, I have to keep making the rounds as hostess, but I'll try to find you later!" She backed away, still smiling, and returned to greeting new arrivals.

Gwindor was honest with himself and admitted, with minimal prodding from his family, that he would not make it through the night standing, and found himself somewhere comfortable to sit. Hr tracked Finduilas through the crowd as people continued to gather. Finduilas had split the space to give people more room, but for the opening ceremony everyone was meeting here on one side, and they were soon packed in elbow to elbow.

Finally, Lady Gilthand strode to the center of the clearing, so near the fire that her back had to be roasting, and raised both arms high. The hubbub of small talk died away near instantly, and Finduilas took a seat by her father and brother, almost halfway around the ring of guests from Gwindor and his family. For a second she closed her eyes and looked utterly exhausted; then she wiped her brow, opened her eyes again, leaned forward and gave her full attention to her mother.

"Hail to the sun," Lady Gilthand cried in her rich, resonant voice, "blessing unlooked for, enemy of all evil things, on this the longest of days. May we be likewise!"

"Hail to the sun," about half the crowd murmured in response--those more familiar with the customs of the elves of Ered Wethrin.

"Hail to the moon," she continued, "that may waver but ever returns, that illuminates but does not overbear, on this the shortest of nights. May we do likewise!"

"Hail to the moon," Gwindor joined in this time, as did a number of others.

She faced to the east. "Hail Mover of Waters, life's blood of the world, by whose cradle we awoke. Sustain and guide us still."

"Hail, Mover of Waters." Gwindor looked to the side but couldn't tell whether his mother had joined in as well.

Gilthand turned to the south. "Hail, Shaper of Stone, spark of the intellect, in whose mountains we shelter. Bless the industry of our hands."

"Hail, Shaper of Stone." He thought many of the Noldor may have spoken up just for that one.

She turned to the north. "Hail, Sender of Winds, breath of all living, whose servants carry up our prayers. Hear us in our need."

"Hail, Sender of Winds." Gwindor thought he saw Prince Fingon, who stood next to Lord Orodreth, wipe a tear from the corner of his eye.

Gilthand turned to the west. "Hail, Maker of Stars, light of creation, first in our sight, the uttermost desire of our hearts. Give us light where all is dark. Watch over us where no other eye may see. Be our ally where none stands."

"Hail, Maker of Stars."

Lord Orodreth poured a cup of deep red wine and handed it to his wife. "We offer this," she said, holding it high, "as a token our gratitude for all that our labor has produced through your benevolence." She poured the wine out onto the fire, where it hissed and steamed and filled the clearing with its fragrance. "May the season continue in plenty."

"May the season continue in plenty."

And with that, the ceremony ended, the crowd dispersed into a somewhat more reasonable area and began with eating, drinking, and general merry-making. At a nod from Finduilas, a number of the Men, and as many of the Elves as Finrod could coax in, gathered in a circle. The Men began a song, unaccompanied and in their own language, and once they had established a rhythm, started to dance. It didn't look too complicated, and the Elves who had joined in picked it up quickly. Gwindor understood none of the words of the song but could hear the joy in it.

After several rounds of this, the dancers dispersed and Gwindor's hard-won group of musicians struck up a traditional Noldorin line dance. Finrod joined in this one as well, and the next, and the next, never giving any indication that he intended to tire.

Then, the music changed to a dance of Western Beleriand, of the sort that was danced in pairs. Gwindor had resigned himself to spending the evening just watching, but now he was tempted, his physical shortcomings notwithstanding. He sought Finduilas again. She sat in the same place, chatting with her brother, but she looked so tired--he didn't think she'd gotten up once since she'd first sat down.

Perhaps not.

Still, he watched her through that dance and the next one, tallying reasons why or why not. If she didn't want to she could just say so. He wasn't exactly at his best. She was right there, and this could be his best chance. What if she  _ did _ say no?

Finally, he convinced himself it was worth a try and got to his feet. But when he'd accomplished that, with a bit of a hand from his father, he found that while he'd barely taken his eyes off her, Finduilas was no longer where she had been. He caught her seconds later, moving around the crowd toward him, and hurried to meet her.

"If you--" he started.

"I know--" she said at the same time.

"You can--"

"Sorry, I--"

They could do nothing but laugh together. "Ladies first?" Gwindor tried.

She took a breath. "I understand if you don't feel up to it right now, but if you did, I'd love to share a dance with you."

"I was just about to ask you the same thing. Shall we?"

There was a bit of awkwardness around him not having the use of one arm at first. After the first several measures however, Finduilas adapted quickly and beautifully, until if they had been the only ones dancing one might not have realized anything was amiss at all. Every touch of her skin against his was like lightning, and he didn't know if it was only the dance making his heart beat so fast.

When the music ended, it would have been impossible for him  _ not _ to tell her. "Will you walk with me for a while?" he asked.

"Gladly." She wrapped a hand around his good arm and let him lead her into the small grove between the fires.

They weren't the only couple looking for a place to be alone--it was a true Sindarin festival after all--and they walked in silence until he was reasonably sure they would not be overheard.

He steeled his nerves. He'd put some thought into this, and he only needed to make himself say the words. "Finduilas, before I met you, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen was the sun rising over the waters of Ivrin--"

A strange look passed over her face. "Was it you, after all?" she said, half to herself. She looked up at him. "The poem?"

She remembered. But if she weren't so smart, would he love her half so much? "Yes," he admitted.

"Both of them--the flowers--the necklace--all of it?"

"Yes, all of it."

"Why?" 

"At first, because you were, and remain, the loveliest sight I have ever seen. And then because I discovered you to be thoughtful, and devoted, and diligent, and caring and a hundred other things I adore."

"Then why not just say so? I came here afraid I was going to have to lure out some poor soul and then break their heart because I'd already--um, well, that is," she fell suddenly shy, "because you're brave, and loyal and helpful and handsome and I was hoping to maybe come to some sort of understanding with you?"

" _ Yes _ , oh yes. Oh, Finduilas, I'm sorry. I was--I was afraid. I never know how to say things right when I'm with you. I don't know what words there are that could describe how much I'm feeling whenever I look at you. You're just--" and now, he thought he might have one at last. He took her hand in his. "My--my Faelivrin."

_____________________

 

Finduilas did have some idea of what attraction between two people was supposed to be like. She'd been sat down on her forty-eighth birthday with her mother and the other clan women and her tight-lipped Noldorin grandmother and had listened to them tell her all about the ways that bodies could be used for pleasure. But it had always seemed so abstract--like the way some people really seemed to enjoy fermented fish, and there was enough evidence to suggest they weren't just having you on, and so you believed them, but didn't really have any idea what the fuss was all about.

But something about her, and him, and the trees and the warm summer air and the  _ things _ he was saying to her made her start to understand. She needed to be closer to him, needed  _ more _ than just her hand touching his.

She moved in, wrapped an arm around his neck, looked into his eyes, flicked her tongue over her lips. And then, just in case he was too chivalrous for anything less than a verbal invitation, whispered, "Would you--kiss me?"

His breath stuttered a little and his grip on her hand tightened. "Anything." He didn't hesitate--he had to be as eager as she was.

It was glorious.

_______________________

 

"Thank Eru," Gelmir muttered, and turned away to give his brother some privacy.


	6. Long Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwindor and Finduilas may be separated physically, but their love brings them together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you pay attention to the dates in this chapter, they reference the Elvish calendar as seen in the appendices of _The Return of the King_ , which divides the year into six parts, named (in Sindarin because fucking Elu Thingol) _Ethuil_ "Spring", _Laer_ "Summer", _Iavas_ "Harvest", _Firith_ "Fading", _Rhiw_ "Winter", and _Echuir_ "Stirring". _Penninor_ is the name for the last day of the year, immediately after the last day of Echuir.
> 
> If you're _really_ paying attention to dates, you may notice that we're soon to enter some turbulance. *turns on the fasten seatbelt sign*

Several days of vigilance passed, but from the top of the tower came no indication of any new danger approaching. They seemed to be safe, for now, but this sudden encroachment remained disturbing. Fingon sent half of his soldiers home to Barad Eithel and set out for Himring with the other half to verify the integrity of the border. Finrod likewise felt it prudent to take counsel with his brothers in Dorthonian, accompanied by just a few still-hale companions. The rest of his party, including Lord Guilin's whole family, he ordered to return to Nargothrond, for both their protection and that of the kingdom.

Finduilas lamented being separated from Gwindor so soon, when she'd expected them to have the whole rest of the summer to explore their newly transformed relationship. "Write to me," she begged as he prepared to depart.

Being in full view of both his family and hers, he put one hand on the small of her back and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. "As often as I can," he promised.

 

* * *

 

_ Minas Tirith _

_ 42 Laer, 449 _

_ Dear Gwindor, _

_ This letter may arrive at Nargothrond nearly at the same time you do, depending on how quickly you are traveling. A messenger is being sent with the latest report on the border, and I couldn't resist taking the opportunity to include a little note of my own. You will be pleased to hear, I am sure, that we continue to see almost no enemy activity--even less, from what I hear, than has been usual over the past several decades. I hope that your journey is likewise safe, that you are continuing to heal well and that you have not found any reason to exert yourself more than you ought. _

_ Although I keenly regret your premature departure, yet for your sake I am glad you are spared the sights that I have had to endure lately. To wit: my father has elected to cope with the successful defense of this tower and our continued freedom from harm by clinging voraciously to my mother, and she has done absolutely nothing but encourage him. I won't bother you with any reproduction of the honey-dipped words that now constitute the majority of their discourse, much less any description of the breaches of decency they have enacted before the eyes of their own children. It is sufficient to note that the whole business is enough to make me glad to escape the additional embarrassment I would feel were you there to witness it all. _

_ I never would have said before that the tower feels too big for those of us who live here. I must have gotten used to having people underfoot all the time, because now that they have all returned home it seems rather empty. I know Rodnor very much enjoyed having all the Mortal children about, and misses their company. I suppose we will recover our old habits with enough time.  _

_ The messenger is ready to depart and I haven't time to say more. Give my best regards to your family and know that you are in my thoughts every day. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Finduilas _

 

* * *

 

_ Nargothrond _

_ 52 Laer, 449 _

_ My dearest Faelivrin, _

_ Your messenger caught up to us just as we were fording the Narog. I could hardly believe my good fortune when he delivered your letter to me. Our return home was absolutely unremarkable. I believe my family took it in turns to find reasons why we "surely could travel no father" each day, such that I am now fully recovered, with no more than a thin scar to show for all my efforts. _

_ I am sorry to hear that your parents have made things so awkward for you. I wonder, though, whether you object to honeyed words in general, or if it is merely their parental source that bothers you. For if it is the former, I will restrain myself from showering you with any of my own, but if a few well chosen endearments would not distress you, please do give me leave, for the impulse is a mighty one, you being deserving of all adoring speech. _

_ Perhaps this is only the King's enthusiasm on the subject becoming rather infectious, but I believe Rodnor could benefit by building friendships with the children of Men, if the opportunity does not come at too great a cost. The most skilled among them can match our own warriors at an astonishingly young age, and they often offer a refreshing change in perspective. _

_ Every day that I cannot look upon your beauty is wearisome to me. Until I see you again, I will survive on your words, which never fail to raise my spirit. _

_ Yours always, _

_ Gwindor _

 

* * *

 

_ Minas Tirith _

_ 15 Firith 449 _

_ My dear Gwindor, _

_ I apologize profusely for the delay in my reply; I hope you have not languished overmuch without it. The only excuse I can give is that Uncle Finrod mentioned when he passed through on his return journey that my grandparents greatly wished me to visit, and I didn't receive your letter until I'd returned from Dorthonian. I am glad to hear you returned safely and are well. _

_ From you, I do not believe I would mind so much some tender expressions of your affection, if they come to you with such urgency. Only remember that every letter I send or receive is at some risk of espionage in the form of a prying younger brother, and thus at least a modicum of discretion must be maintained.  _

_ As for me, I'm afraid I have not your way with poetry, and will have to make do with quoting some lines from Daeron that the season put me in mind of: _

 

A rain of color fluttering

From oak and elm cascade

Around thy head, beneath thy feet

Vermillion drops hath strayed

A tapestry upon the mould

The leaves for thee prepared

While changeless doth thy beauty hold

Dark-eyed and raven-haired

 

_ With fondest regards, _

_ Finduilas _

_ P.S. I didn't want to torment you by making this letter any later than it already is, but I asked my father to take a few minutes and sketch my portrait, which I have enclosed. (Yes, he knows it was for you.) _

 

* * *

_ Nargothrond _

_ 21 Rhiw 449 _

_ My darling Faelivrin, _

_ First, I must apologize for the lateness of my reply. After begging for any word from you, I have delayed my own until I will be fortunate if this letter reaches you by midwinter. I have been struck by the curse of the blank page, and cannot find any words that I might consider equal to the smallest part of you. _

_ Nor can I excuse myself by lack of inspiration. Your father has quite a talented hand, and has captured your essence faithfully, and I am thankful every day to see one facet of your beauty. _

_ In the end I must admit defeat and let imperfect words stand in the place of none at all. Faelivrin I named you, and your beauty of body and sweetness of spirit have power to brighten the soul, soothe all hurts and remedy all weariness. Were I to search the whole of Arda a dearer treasure I could not hope to find. _

_ Having labored so long over so poor an offering, I can cast no shame on your borrowed words, if you find them apt ones. That being said, I cannot imagine myself to possess such beauty as must have inspired those lines, and yet I dare not in my humility act against my own interests by contradicting you. I shall have to trust that your judgement is, as always, flawless, and receive it with utmost gratitude. _

_ I pray that the northern winter has not proved too harshly cold. Be assured (if I may speak so boldly) that I would gladly warm you myself if I were near you. _

_ With greatest devotion, _

_ Gwindor _

  
  


* * *

_ Minas Tirith _

_ 45 Rhiw 449 _

_ My dear Gwindor, _

_ I chose those lines with full knowledge of their source and thank you for not questioning my judgement. I hold it in my prerogative to consider you exactly as beautiful as I like, and in my mind's eye I recall you as very comely indeed. _

_ Lest you take that last as any sort of veiled request, I have additional news that may suggest an even more excellent remedy. Without, I think, too much convincing on my part, my parents have made a tentative plan to visit Nargothrond this spring. To see your dear face in person will be the greatest blessing, and one I anticipate with an almost unbearable longing. _

_ We have had several days lately of clear skies and bitter cold. Within the tower it is not so bad, but I miss being able to go outside without layers on layers of clothing. My down-lined coat is quite gorgeous, but it is incapable of stroking my cheek or whispering pretty words in my ear, so I think I know of something I would rather be wrapped up in if I had the chance. _

_ Yours in waiting, _

_ Finduilas Faelivrin _

 

* * *

 

_ Nargothrond _

_ 38 Ethuil 450 _

_ My dearest Faelivrin, _

_ I know that you denied any lingering displeasure before you departed, but I still feel I have not apologized properly for all that I said last night. I shall send this along as soon as I can, though not by my own hand lest I seem desperate to once more press my case, and hope that it may reach you before you have travelled too far. Please allow me to make it very clear how sorry I am for any grief that I may have caused you. I should have been more attentive to what you said you wanted rather than thinking only of what I wanted, even if I claimed it was for your sake. It is an admirable thing to be loyal to one's family and I apologize for anything I may have said that made you feel you had to defend them against me. We made so many good memories together this spring and it would sit uneasily in my heart for our last discourse to be a bitter one. _

_ You remain the dearest thing to me in all the world, and I am berating myself for momentarily letting shortsighted pride come between us. I wish to be near you always, but never to selfishly possess you. I would never have you believe that anything is more important to me than your happiness. _

_ I pray you travel swiftly and safely home, and know that in all ways you occupy yourself you will surely continue to be of great benefit to the people of your lands. I await with patience the day I can see you and hold you close to me once more. _

_ Humbly yours, _

_ Gwindor _

 

* * *

  
  


_ Minas Tirith _

_ 51 Ethuil 450 _

_ My dear, dear Gwindor, _

_ I am starting this letter as soon as I received yours (and I thanked Gelmir I'm sure as profusely as you did for delivering it) but did not wish to be overly hasty in my reply, and thus do not think I will be able to send this back to you until we return to Minas Tirith. I hope that I do not cause you too much pain in the waiting. _

_ I accept your apology with gratitude in the spirit in which it was given. However, you were hardly the only one at fault the night before we parted. I knew what you were trying to express, and that you said it out of love, and I could have been much more charitable in how I interpreted your words. I was defensive and unwilling out of fear to accept the truth.  _

_ I wish so badly that our last parting could have been a less reserved, more heartfelt one, and regret terribly that I did not take the time to properly make things right before we said goodbye. If you like, please imagine that I threw my arms around you and held you for so long that everyone began to clear their throats with impatience, and that I then kissed you on the lips without a care as to who was watching. _

_ I plan to put that charming likeness of you that your mother made me on my dressing table as soon as I get home. If you had any doubt of it, I miss you already. I will try to arrange to be with you again soon, for having tasted once again the sweetness of your presence I know I can go only so long without you near me. _

_ With all my love, _

_ Finduilas Faelivrin _

 

* * *

 

_ Nargothrond _

_ Penninor, 451 _

_ My beloved Faelivrin, _

_ Happy new year! I've sent you something along with this letter to celebrate your birthday. With luck, it should arrive just in time. Edrahil has promised to take very good care of it, so if it arrives damaged in any way let me know and I will try to make it right and also give him a thorough beating next time we spar. I chose the fabric and design myself without letting Gelmir give me any advice, as much as I know he wanted to. You never fail to have good taste in clothes, so I had the seamstress pattern it after the lavender one you wore last autumn, which I thought set off the shape of your hips so very nicely. The fabric was what gave me the idea in the first place--I happened to see it and immediately thought it would look beautiful on you. _

_ Be sure to tell Rodnor happy birthday from me on his as well. I am sure he will be as tall as I am when next we meet, and I will gladly test his skill with a spear if he wishes it. _

_ I hope every night to dream of you, though when I do I am sorely grieved in the morning that you are not here. You will be constantly in my thoughts, and I wish you happiness and success in all that you do. _

_ Forever yours, _

_ Gwindor _

 

* * *

 

_ Minas Tirith _

_ 11 Ethuil, 452 _

_ My dear Gwindor, _

_ Please have pity on poor Edrahil--the dress arrived in perfect condition and is exquisite and very much appreciated. I love the fabric, it was an excellent choice on your part. I wish that I could show it off for you, but I doubt my father could be convinced to faithfully reproduce the fall across my hips that delights you so much. (You've seen my mother, so you must be aware I cannot actually claim any credit for the shapeliness of my hips. I will accept compliments on my sense of fashion, however; that was passed down from my grandmother Edhellos, but I was a very attentive student.) Fortunately for you, I'm pushing for permission to come to Nargothrond later this summer, and I will be sure to bring it with me. _

_ You jest, but Rodnor is reaching the age where he does nothing but eat and grow and will likely surpass me before the end of this year. His horse is old enough for proper training now, and he is wild to take her out. We could barely keep him indoors all winter, even when it was blowing snow outside. _

_ The border has continued to be quiet; we take joy in it, but everyone agrees it would be unwise to be any less vigilant. THough my father is not entirely happy about it, Rodnor and I have both continued to practice our weapons training. If I have not the makings of a renowned warrior of your caliber, I at least feel competent to protect myself to some degree. Rodnor is both more enthusiastic and more diligent than I, and regularly bests me when we face off against each other. I am sure he would be thrilled to see what you can teach him. _

_ With any luck I will see you before long. Until then I will keep my love for you perpetually kindled with the memories of all the times we have shared together. _

_ Love always, _

_ Finduilas Faelivrin _

 

* * *

 

_ Nargothrond _

_ 41 Echuir, 453 _

_ We are already seeing a few of the hardier flowers poke their heads up; I think we tend to get them a bit earlier this far south than you do. If you have the courage to wait a few days longer I will press some and send them to you. As soon as the trees start to put on new leaves, we are going to start training in tree-top combat again; Captain Nerseth was not yet satisfied with our performance last fall. With luck I will not be shown up quite so badly by Gelmir this time; I am his equal or superior in most martial pursuits, but he excels at this one. He claims it is because he is older, although we have both been studying the art for nearly the same amount of time. Of course, I am sure Gelmir will still claim the ineffable wisdom of an older brother even when I am a thousand years old and he is a thousand and thirty-eight. _

_ You were correct about the poem; I hadn’t ever heard or read it before. Thank you for sending it; your handwriting is always lovely but I can see you copied it out with particular care and beauty. The early elves certainly had their own way of thinking about things, didn’t they? Although I asked my mother just now and she says Pammeldë always had a bit of an odd reputation. In any case I’d love to discuss it further with you and your father next time we are all together. _

_ Before I conclude, I desire to write to you upon a subject of deepest consequence. The king remains certain that it would be folly to marry in such dangerous times, and I trust and revere him too much to go against his counsel. I could sooner doubt my own existence than your faithfulness, and I would wait for you for all the ages of the world. Nevertheless, I feel a persistent longing to in some manner declare before the world that I am yours and you are mine. Therefore, with your assent I would propose that we enter at least into a formal betrothal, until such time as our Enemy is vanquished at last and we are free to marry in safety and peace. _

_ I await your reply with abject anticipation. _

_ Ever and unconditionally yours, _

_ Gwindor _

  
  


* * *

 

_ Minas Tirith _

_ 52 Echuir 453 _

_ My dearest, most beloved Gwindor, _

_ YES. _

_ Yours, yours, yours, _

_ Finduilas Faelivrin _

 

* * *

 

A flurry of additional letters back and forth got everything arranged. The betrothal feast took place at harvest-time, in Nargothrond, with as much of both of their families as they could muster in attendance. Finduilas did her duty in helping to plan the feast, but none of the details could compare in importance to the promise she was about to make.

Her excitement was not as contagious as she hoped. "This is but one thread in the border of a much larger tapestry," Aunt Galadriel told her, and she didn't smile when she said it. Uncle Aegnor congratulated them as heartily as anyone else, but spent much of his time staring off and looking pensive, or else closed in conversation with his brothers and sister. However, her grandmother more or less made up for everyone else, pouring all the effort into her granddaughter’s betrothal that she hadn’t gotten the opportunity to with her son’s.

They made quite a pretty tableau, seated at the table between his family on one side and hers on the other. They'd even managed to warrant a small collection of guests from Doriath, conveying King Thingol's best wishes for the occasion. But Finduilas barely noticed anything but Gwindor staring raptly back at her, and their fingers remained laced together under the table whenever they could manage it.

Neither Finduilas nor Gwindor were of the disposition to craft a ring themselves, but they each chose a craftsperson and an inscription with care, and were pleased with the result. To Gwindor, Finduilas gave a band of silver engraved with the sign of the house of Finarfin and the words  _ My heart is with you always,  _ and from him received a similar band inscribed with _ All I am and all I have, for your life and your joy.  _ Once she started crying, few eyes at the feast remained dry.

Afterward, Gwindor nearly did convince Finduilas to stay with him in Nargothrond this time. However, inasmuch as circumstances prevented them from marrying, those same circumstances compelled her to remain by the side of her mother and father, fulfilling her duty to the people she loved. They promised to write and to visit as often as they could, and had a new reason to pour all their efforts into winning this war.

For a moment, all was well.


	7. Sudden Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The things we all knew were going to happen start happening. Fire from the North, deeds of valor and loyalty, grief, and loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of this chapter (which I ended up dividing into two because it was running so long), this is the longest fic I've ever published. Now we're getting into the stuff that's actually covered in some detail in The Silmarillion, but I still think I can heap on a little more pain.

Large, elaborate Midwinter feasts were more a tradition of the Noldor--in the Ered Wethrin the time was one of solemn contemplation, to center oneself and meditate on the direction of one's life. At Tol Sirion, they compromised--songs and delicacies were not in short supply all through the night, but the formal feast was concluded long before midnight and the residents of the tower broke off singly or in small groups to celebrate as they would. 

Finduilas passed a wonderfully cozy evening seated with her family around a warm fire, nibbling on pastries, adding a word here and there to a letter to Gwindor, and listening to Rodnor pick out a shaky hymn on the harp. It was one of the only artistic pursuits he'd expressed any interest in lately, so she tried to exaggerate her smiles and tamp down her winces.

Eventually, the soothing warmth and the murmur of her parents voices set her head to nodding enough times that she excused herself to a proper bed. When she reached her room, she thought of one more thing she needed to add to her letter, then changed into her nightgown and snuggled in under her several quilts.

She was just slipping into sleep when someone knocked on her door. She opened it a crack to find Rodnor, blinking blearily and still more than half asleep, a blanket draped over his shoulders. "C'n I sleep'n y'r room?"

Finduilas frowned--he hadn't needed to crawl into someone else's bed to sleep since his mid-twenties--but took him by the hand and led him in. "What's wrong?"

" 'S too bright." She glanced out her window but saw only a faint glow off to her right. Then again, his window faced north, hers west. The moon had followed almost immediately behind the sun over the horizon tonight. Maybe the soldiers were continuing to celebrate up at the barracks?

She guided him carefully to her bed, where he immediately curled up in his blanket and shut his eyes. There was plenty of room left for her, and she didn't mind sharing for one night. Still, since she was up she might as well see what the problem actually was. She pulled on her dressing gown and a pair of thin-soled slippers--terribly underdressed for a winter night, but she didn't intend to be out more than a moment.

As soon as she stepped out of the north side door, a noxious smoke hit her in the face. She took several seconds to get her coughing under control, and squinted through the haze, unable to understand what she was seeing. Her stomach did a dizzying flip as she finally comprehended that the entire northern horizon was  _ on fire _ .

Guards were racing every direction across the courtyard, barking orders and calling out frantic questions. One pushed past her on her way to the door Finduilas had just exited. "Please come back inside, milady," she requested firmly, leading her by the elbow 

Finduilas didn't resist. "What's going on? What happened?"

The woman merely pinched her lips together and shook her head, then hurried off somewhere.

Were they under attack? What power of the Enemy could possibly have caused all of this? Her instinct was to go to her father, but at a second thought she denied the impulse. Nothing he could tell her right now would make her of any more use in defending the tower, and that had to be their first priority.

The best thing she could do, probably, was to go back to her room and keep an eye on Rodnor. On her way, she stopped into an empty room where a carafe of wine and a few cups lay abandoned, and poured herself half a cup to sooth her throat, still irritated from the smoke. She thought she could smell it even inside the walls now. If the commotion continued, it would wake Rodnor again before long, so she didn't delay any longer getting back to him.

He was still asleep when she returned. She lay down and curled up behind him, though for her sleep was impossible. Soon she began gently stroking his back, more for her comfort than anything. There was no doubt now that the reek of smoke was working its way inside.

Time passed strangely when she did nothing but lie still and gnaw on the same thoughts over and over. What did this mean? How much danger were they in? How completely was everything about to change? Who was alive and who was dead? What could she possibly do to help? It felt like both forever and no time at all before Rodnor yawned and sat up, just as her window began to grow perceptibly lighter.

He looked a little confused. "Did I come in here last night?"

She nodded. "You said it was too bright…" 

Before she could begin to explain what she only half understood herself, her door opened and her father walked in. Normally he was meticulous about knocking first.

"Oh, you're both here, good, good." He seemed not to know what to say any more than she did, and delayed the issue by sitting on the bed between them and giving each of them a long, tight hug.

"There's been...an increase in enemy activity down from the north," he began.

"I saw the fire," Finduilas said.

"How bad?" Rodnor asked.

Very bad, by the look on her father's face. "We're going to defend the tower for as long as we can." So, bad enough that they planned not for driving the enemy back entirely, only delaying their incursion into Beleriand. Well, that was why Uncle Finrod had built this tower. "For now I think I'd like the two of you to stay here if you don't mind. Easier to defend everyone when we know where they are, you know."

Both of them agreed to this without complaint. Rodnor was allowed to go collect a few things from his room, while Finduilas changed into a day dress and collected her letter and a few other things to keep her and Rodnor occupied. Her father came by a few minutes later escorting Rodnor.

She couldn't restrain herself from asking one question before her father left them and got back to work. "Has--has there been any report from Dorthonian?"

"There hasn't." Her father looked to Rodnor but chose not to keep the news from him. "The highlands appear to have been hit worst of all."

They spend most of the day in nervous boredom. Rodnor controlled his normal exuberance better than she might have expected, but continually made his way back to her window, peering out for any new development. Finduilas found it impossible to add any of her current thoughts to her letter. She didn't dare risk making any of this any more real.

Her father came to talk to her again several hours later. Many people from the nearby settlements had begun to arrive, fleeing before the enemy. Their numbers were far fewer than they had been several summers ago. Still, he wanted her help making a place for those who had escaped. He told her he intended to evacuate noncombatants, her and her brother included, if it looked like they might not get another opening. But for now it was safer inside the tower; to leave would only expose them to attack and he could not spare the soldiers to protect them.

Over the next few days, the enemy was at least halted in its advance. When it became clear that they would have some warning if things got worse, Finduilas and Rodnor were given leave to move about the tower, though not to leave its safety. Finduilas at least had enough to occupy her tending to their guests, though an underlying quiet terror had made itself at home in her heart.

She did much more tending and triaging the wounded than she had last time. Not only were there more of them, her mother was busy coming to every part of the tower and singing words of power and strength into the very stones. Finduilas knew her mother had a reputation for being wise in the magic and lore of her people. But she'd never seen her work more than the smallest magics before now--a song that would soothe baby Rodnor to sleep every time without fail, smoke of herbs to heal a wounded spirit that became so much more effectively when she burned them herself. Now, hearing her in her full power, she realized why the people of Ered Wethrin held her in such esteem.

She and her father were in his study discussing how they would ration supplies if they remained under siege for the rest of the winter, for the rest of the year, for the rest of their lives. They both looked up at a hurried knock on the door.

"Come in," said her father.

A guard with the look of someone whose exhaustion had temporarily been replaced by excitement entered. He bowed perfunctorily and said, "Milord, an army has been sighted coming up from the south. Elvish, ten thousand warriors at least. We're fairly certain King Felagund himself leads them."

Her father sighed deeply and smiled just a little. "Some good news at last. Thank you, Agladhir." He sat and thought for several seconds, running his hand over the back of his neck as he did so. "How bad has it been this morning?"

"Eh, middling, milord. We've whittled them down a fair bit, but they're dug in pretty well at this point and we believe they're expecting reinforcements within the next two days."

"Hm. How far out is my uncle's army?"

"I'd say three days for the mounted warriors in the vanguard--they're travelling terribly fast--maybe another day for the main host."

Finduilas's first thought should  _ not _ have been for how every hour brought Gwindor closer to her--for she doubted anything could have stopped him from riding to their aid. She knew this was more important than the two of them, but there it was, in spite of herself.

"All right," said her father. "Have everyone fall back to the island for now, as soon as you safely can. We'll put all our strength into defending the tower until they arrive."

"Yes milord." Agladhir nodded and left.

There was more hope and less despair when Finduilas and her father resumed their calculations.

Scouts and messengers darted back and forth between the tower and Nagothrond's army, and when the vanguard reached the Pass of Sirion they did not slow their pace at all. Finduilas managed to sneak out of the tower for a few minutes to watch them pass by on the west bank of the Sirion. She picked Gwindor out of the force even under all his armor, riding between his father and brother. 

She waved to him, not too hopeful for a response. Gelmir was the first to notice her, and somehow managed to get his brothers attention and pointed her out. Gwindor kissed his hand and tossed it out toward her. She pressed a hand to her own lips and said a prayer to any Vala that would hear it for his safe return.

* * *

A small band of valiant Men came sweeping down unlooked for from Dorthonion, just in time for some and far too late for the rest.

* * *

Finduilas liked to think she had developed

a fair amount of skill at keeping herself occupied and her mind off things she could not change. She'd manage to go two hours at a time on occasion without wondering if, somehow, she would feel it if Gwindor died. Spouses sometimes could, she'd heard. She was having a hard time remembering why stopping at a betrothal was supposed to have been better for her.

She tended to those who had already lost spoused, siblings, parents, children. She blocked out their anxiety as well as she could lest she be overwhelmed, and that made it easier not to feel her own.

She couldn't entirely avoid learning news about the battle, however; she couldn't even make herself wish that she had the ability to. Even if she'd only seen the faces of the guards passing in and out of her father's study, she would have known there was little hope.

When she finally overheard that Finrod appeared to be falling back to the tower with his forces (she tried to convince herself that what the guard said next didn't sound like "or what's left of them") she gave in and retreated to her room. She didn't want to know. She wanted to pretend for a little longer that everything would be alright.

After several exhaustingly nervous hours, there was a knock at her door. She just froze, didn't stand up from where she'd been sitting on the edge of her bed, didn't even speak up to ask who was there. Just a little longer.  _ She didn't want to know. _

Nearly a minute passed before the most beautiful voice in the world said, "Finduilas? It's me. Are you there?" She leaped up and ran across her room and fumbled with her door latch for aching moments. "Your father said…" he continued, but trailed off when she opened the door and only a few inches of space separated them anymore.

He looked terrible. He must have come straight to her, still in his blood-stained armor and shredded cloak. His hair had not been rebraided in several days. The entire left side of his face and neck was marred by a massive bruise that looked like it continued down well past what she could see, and he was covered with numerous scabbed-over cuts and scrapes. She doubted she could do him any harm an army of orcs could not, but she nonetheless tried to be gentle as she embraced him. For a long time, his hand on her back was everything she needed in the world.

 When she turned aside to invite him in, his gait was stiff and slow. He turned from one side to another, perhaps intending to find a place to sit, but seemed to recognize the incongruity between the prettiness of his surroundings and his own road-smirched condition. 

She sat back down on her bed, patted the space next to her and said, "It's fine. Please just be near me."

He didn't protest, just all but collapsed onto the bed beside her. It was beyond laughable to imagine that either of them was in any state to engage in something improper, but she flicked her gaze up to double-check that she'd left her door open, lest anyone passing by have cause to call their honor into question. She could only get so close to him in all that armor, but she scooted as close as she could and rested her head on his cold pauldron. 

Eventually he spoke. "My father was riding beside me. He was cut down in the first charge. Gelmir's unit was supposed to circle around the fen and try to flank. They never arrived. About two thirds of them were discovered slaughtered far on the eastern side. I could not find my brother's body among the dead.”

“So, he might be--” she began, but the anguished sound Gwindor made quashed her foolish wishing. If Gelmir was not dead, he was a prisoner in Angband. And while Mandos claimed little pity for the Noldor bound in his halls, neither was he said to be cruel to them.

She couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose half of her family just like that--literally  _ couldn't  _ let herself try, not if she wanted to stay strong enough to be what Gwindor needed right now. And of course she mourned dear, sweet Gelmir for his own sake as well, whatever his fate; and Nargothrond would be poorer for Lord Guilin's loss.

There were more guests and more wounded to tend to. She couldn't say she was happy or even content, but with Gwindor here, knowing he was safe, she could at least work without her attention divided. Within a few days she hoped they'd lost all the wounded they were going to lose and she wept into Gwindor's chest over the fragility of Men.

Her mother helped whenever she had a spare moment, but seemed now even more desperate to shore up the tower's defenses however she could. She sang until she was hoarse, songs of strength, of repelling, of holiness and rejection of all evil. Then she mixed up a draught of hot water and strong herbs and sang more, far into the night.

Finduilas began to wonder if this was a skill she too could acquire, another way she could contribute. Now was obviously the wrong time to ask her mother to teach her. It didn't seem realistic to regret not asking to be taught sometime earlier in her life, when her mother had never shown any inclination to offer, but she indulged in the feeling a bit anyway. Then, she resolved to at least observe, and perhaps learn what she could that way. Her mother barely reacted to Finduilas's presence, but did smile approvingly at her once in a while.

She was standing to one side so as not to be a distraction, one afternoon, trying to immerse herself in the song and feel out how it worked, when a voice next to her unexpectedly asked, "What is she doing?"

She'd opened her spirit so far that the sudden intrusion of another presence startled her badly. She whirled to find a Man standing next to her. So many had descended upon then she couldn't remember all their names. This one was young-looking, but with eyes that showed much experience already. He didn't apologize, merely watched her keenly as she brought her breathing and heartbeat back under control. 

"The music is beautiful, and there's a power in it. What does it mean?" he asked her with a curious intensity.

He spoke Sindarin very well, so it couldn't be that he didn't understand the words themselves that her mother sang. She gestured to him silently to follow and led him down the corridor and around a corner.

"I'm happy to answer your questions," she told him, "but it's important we don't interrupt. My mother's work could be vital to our survival." 

Before she could continue, an older man entered the corridor and strode toward them. This one she did recognize--Lord Barahir, who had been so greatly honored for saving her uncle's life and who had almost certainly saved Gwindor's as well.

"Beren!" he snapped, but there was affection in it. "Making a nuisance of yourself again? Remember, you're a guest here." He made a well-formed bow before Finduilas. "Forgive me, milady. He's always had an...inquisitive turn of mind."

"Please don't be troubled, Lord Barahir, it's no bother," she replied. "It's nice to see some of your folk taking an interest in out ways, and I really don't mind talking to, ah, Beren about some of our songs."

Sir Barahir sighed. "You didn't even introduce yourself properly first, did you? Princess Finduilas, this is my son, Beren. Beren, Princess Finduilas, daughter of Orodreth.

Beren made his own bow, earnestly if a bit awkwardly. "Pleased to meet you. Father, I've never seen them do it up close before, it's incredible! I could almost feel the world turning its ear to her when she sang."

"The Lady Gilthand, was it?"

Finduilas nodded.

"She is said to have a power few even among the Elves can match."

"What was her purpose?" Beren asked eagerly once more.

"That song was one of binding stone to stone. They become...friends, you could say, and then as long as her will persists unyielding, the stones desire to be close to one another and cannot be parted." She did not consider that a wholly adequate wording of the ideas behind the song as she understood it, but Beren seemed to soak it in.

He peppered her with questions for several minutes and she answered them to the best of her ability. Every once in a while Lord Barahir would ask a thoughtful question himself. She certainly identified a few areas of her own ignorance that she would need to remedy in the process.

Finally Lord Barahir said, "All right son, I think you've taken enough of the lady's time for today. Remember, you're expected to take your turn on guard tonight. Why don't you see if you can find yourself some dinner before you go, eh?"

"Yes, Father," he answered, and departed.

"Thank you again for indulging him," Barahir said.

"It really is not a problem at all. I'm still learning myself, it's good for me."

"I sometimes think he'd have been happy to be born an Elf. He's never satisfied with sticking to the fate he was given."

"I think that might make him very much a Man, actually."

Barahir chuckled. "Perhaps, perhaps. Thank you for making us all so welcome, anyhow."

"After all you've done, any service I can provide to you and your family is but small thanks. We're honored to welcome you for as long as--" well, she had to be honest, "to the best of our ability, anyway."

"Whether it be not overstaying our welcome, or abandoning an ally too soon, we must be gone before too much longer."

Finduilas frowned. "Where will you go?"

"Oh, back up to the highlands, as soon as everyone who lived is well enough to sit a horse."

"You're going back? But I heard--" she thought she had mastered the worst of her grief but it rose up and threatened to crash over her, "--heard that there was, there was almost nothing left."

Sir Barahir shrugged. "Our families are still there, those that survived. Might see if we can get them to a safer place, but even then? It's still our home, and I can't just let it be taken away. I'll fight to my dying day if I have to before I give it up."

Finduilas was a little awe-struck by the pride and valor that could be found in Men, and understood even more than before why her uncle had honored him so highly.

As promised, Barahir led as many of his people as could or would follow him back into still-occupied Dorthonian only a few days later. Soon after, Finrod made ready to return to Nargothrond. A portion of his army would remain at Minas Tirith to aid her father in its defense--but Gwindor would not be among them.

"The King has granted me all of my father's lands and titles," he explained, and clearly considered it meager weregild indeed. "There are things--people--that I'm responsible for now. And my mother, if she hasn't already heard--the news--I should be there to tell her. She's going to need me."

"Of course. You must go where your duty lies."

They both knew what he was going to say next, and what she would answer.

"Faelivrin, please, I have to at least ask. There's nothing between this tower and Angband now. Your family are all strong-willed and valiant, but--in Nargothrond you would be so much safer--"

"Not yet," she told him gently. "I can still do good here. If nothing else, they will fight all the harder to protect me, however great their love for Elfinesse as a whole."

He shook his head with a small, fond smile. "The tower will stand because of how hard you work, and how hard you will fight if you have to. But Faelivrin, you must promise me, if the worst does happen--"

"I will not be the one to stand here at the last." There were too many people who would never allow it, whether she wanted to or not. "And I will come back to you. I promise."


	8. Werewolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Isle of Sirion becomes the Isle of Werewolves. Finduilas manages to pick up some dubious Feanorian help. Everything continues to go badly for everybody. But hey, at least Finduilas is moving into Nargothrond for good now.

The threat of attack still loomed, and things could hardly be said to be said to be 'back to normal'. Finduilas hated to think she could just get used to this never ending dread. But from day to day she knew what she had to do, and she managed.

Then they heard about the High King. 

With hours of the messengers arriving there was no one in the tower who hadn't heard the story of the awful, despairing charge and valiant duel to the death. Her father risked a journey up to Barad Eithel to see the crown successfully passed on. Whether or not, as some said, this was only because Maedhros saw fit to allow it, no one made any trouble. Fingon assumed the High Kingship, and the kingdoms of the Noldor all swore their loyalty to him. Finduilas shuddered at the thought of having that much responsibility suddenly thrust upon oneself.

Against her father's advice, a few former inhabitants of the nearest farms, mostly Men, moved back out of the tower and attempted to rebuild what they could. Finduilas admired their courage but didn't feel right about them risking their lives and often those of their families, even if those who remained at the tower could sorely use more food coming in. Her father tried to spare the guards to protect them as long as he could, but raids from Angband put them under constant pressure, and soon even his kind heart he could no longer justify the cost. By the next harvest, all had either retreated back to the tower or been slaughtered.

News reached them periodically of Barahir's continuing, indomitable opposition to the enemy's encroachment into Dorthonian. Finduilas tried to draw strength from his example, but she found little reason to hope.

 

* * *

 

They had no warning until the wolves began to howl, shortly after the sun had passed behind the mountains to the west. 

The occasional wolf's voice in the night was not an uncommon sound. But then one became two and two became a chorus, baying in eerie unison far closer than they should have been able to reach without being sighted and struck down by elven scouts.

And then above them all, so gradually it was barely noticeable at first, a weird, keening melody floated up. To Finduilas's ears, it seemed the exact opposite of every song that had ever uplifted her heart. The air grew thick, more oppressive than the most humid summer day, until she found it difficult to breathe. Frantic guards around her pushed themselves to act despite it, but it wormed its way inside until it was impossible to ignore.

Images began to flash across her mind's eye as she struggled to orient herself. An army of millions, led by Balrogs, dragons, and other monstrosities. Elves in chains, whimpering under cruel lashes. She shook her head and tried to distract herself, to press on, to think of anything else. The happiest thing she could imagine--her family gathered together, enjoying each other's presence on a Mid-winter night--

A night that ended in flame and grief.

She had to find her family, let them know that she was still safe. She pressed her hand against the stone wall of a corridor and let the cool pressure ground her as she walked. She reminded herself of everything she had not yet lost--her mother's protection, her father's love--

Rodnor's body, charred and broken, filled her vision.

"That's not real," she muttered, but she couldn't stop seeing it. She groped her way toward her brother's room. "That's a lie!" she cried aloud.

**_It is his fate. It is inevitable._ **

She pressed her hands to her ears even though the voice was not coming to her through them. She didn't have to believe it. And even if part of her did, she didn't have to give up. She wrenched open the door and tumbled into the room and he was in her arms, and they were both crying.

Rodnor pressed his hand against her stomach as if checking for a wound. "You're all right," he whispered. "You're all right."

"I am, I am just fine, none of it is real," she assured him.

"We are probably still under attack," he countered.

The mind-consuming song and the horrible images that came with it faded away. But before they could enjoy more than a moment of relief, another song replaced it, more resonant and profound. The whole tower shook around them. If not for their mother's power holding the stones together, it might have collapsed on top of them.

"Let's go find father," Finduilas said.

She'd honed her mind enough that she could now sense the presence of any of her family if she concentrated. It was difficult with the chaos all around her, but she stilled herself inside enough to determine which way to go. She led Rodnor along and found their father in the northern courtyard, just as she'd expected.

"It's time for you to leave," he said before she even had a chance to greet him.

She couldn't argue; this was the very attack they had dreaded for so many months. If she were in charge, she would certainly send Rodnor away immediately, and anyone else not able to fight. And they would need someone to lead them.

"Is Mother coming with us?" Rodnor asked.

As if in response, their mother's voice carried down from the peak of the tower. Just hearing it gladdened Finduilas's heart a bit. Her song wound itself into the gaps of the song that assaulted them and forced it to disperse like wind through a fog, though it quickly reformed every time.

"I think she'd rather make me leave if she could," their father said with a small smile. "But she still has an important part to play here. Finduilas, we're sending away the first and second groups on our list. You will be in charge of the evacuation." She nodded; they'd planned and practiced this multiple times since the siege had been broken. Everyone who lived here knew more or less what to do, but the would need organizing. "I'll see you as far as the stables." her father said and kissed them each on the forehead.

Finduilas rubbed her hands together as she walked, more out of nerves than cold. Her  _ hands _ \--something didn't feel right-- "My ring!" she cried. She'd helped to make bread this afternoon and she'd taken it off so that it didn't get dough all over it. It was still in the pocket of the apron she'd been wearing.

"Finduilas, are you sure it's appropriate to--"

She knew it wasn't a great start to her first foray into real responsibility, but even so. "My  _ betrothal _ ring, Father." She was normally so careful; this just had to be the  _ one time-- _

"Well, that is different--but still--" he hemmed.

" _ Please _ let me go fetch it, I know right where it is, it will only take a moment." She was already hurrying in the direction of the kitchen; her father didn't stop her.

It was right where she remembered it being. She slipped it on and rubbed her thumb over its comforting cool smoothness on her finger. Gwindor wouldn't love her any less without it, but in his absence it meant something to her to have it.

She ran and had nearly caught up with them by the time they reached the stables. Her father nodded at her, silently squeezed her shoulder, and went off to where he was needed elsewhere. Finduilas directed people to load supplies onto horses as the air around them teemed with warring songs.

Every time her father passed by to check on their progress, he looked more troubled. A few dozen wounded guards were added to their evacuation party before they were ready to leave.

She tried to give everyone as much time to prepare as she could. But when the first stones began to tumble from the walls despite her mother's efforts, she knew that they had to go. She gave everyone a final call to depart and mounted her horse.

Her father handed her and Rodnor each a sharply-honed spear before they set off. "I wish I didn't have to be glad you knew how to use these. Follow the mountains until your reach Eithel Ivrin, it will be safer. Run before you fight, if at all you can. Some of you might be able to talk your way into Doriath if you have to, but--"

She nodded. She knew. She and her brother and the Sindar might be welcome, but not the Noldor or the Men. She hoped she wouldn't have to choose to sacrifice some for the safety of others.

She kept her gaze focused ahead and did her best to ignore the screams of those who fell guarding their exit across the western bridge. "Don't," she whispered whenever Rodnor turned to look back northward, but she could hardly follow her own advice. Eventually they got far enough away that she didn't think she could really be hearing the singing anymore, but the sound of it still rang in her ears.

Late into the night, one of the outriders came galloping back to her and pointed out a sizeable band of people silhouetted by the rising half moon. By the dour look on his face, she was surprised to hear him report that they were elves. "They looked an ill-kempt lot." he explained. 

Still, she could hardly imagine they meant to harm her, so she agreed to ride out and meet a representative of theirs halfway. He came accompanied by the most enormous wolfhound she had ever seen, which easily kept pace alongside his master's horse. Her scout had not been wrong in describing him. He was a Noldo with a natural sort of beauty, but a look of wildness about him, as if he hadn't seen a proper home or bath in quite some time.

He dismounted and walked toward her with easy confidence; she did likewise and tried to project self-assuredness. This would be her first real diplomatic encounter without her father to back her up, and she intended to succeed at whatever sort of encounter this turned out to be.

"Greetings. Celegorm son of Feanor," he introduced himself with an outheld hand.

She hesitated to take it, but only for a moment. People she loved and respected could be labeled 'kinslayer' as much as her far flung relations of poorer reputation, and she couldn't afford to be picky about allies right now. She grasped his hand firmly. "Finduilas daughter of Orodreth."

"Well met, cousin, I should say then." He grinned, but she thought she saw some bitterness in it. "What is this?" he asked with a gesture toward her party. "Looks like an evacuation, as I unfortunately have the experience to know."

Why did she feel like telling the truth to him was exposing some vulnerability of hers? "You have it right. Minas Tirith is under attack."

Celegorm winced. "Nahar's tits," he muttered. "How bad?"

"I don't know the size of the Enemy's force, but we've held on for the past year and a half and it's worse than it's ever been before. They have wolves, and someone or something very powerful is leading them."

The dog whined and nosed Celegorm's hand.

"Actually, that sounds like a great reason to _stay_ _out of it_ , Huan," Celegorm murmured in the dog's direction.

If he was even considering going to her parents' aid, she had to find a way to convince him. "If the tower falls, the pass of Sirion will be out of our hands and in those of the Enemy. Everything south of it will be exposed. Please, if you can aid them in any way..."

"We've been living off the land and fending off giant spiders for a year, I doubt we'll be much help. Are you sure  _ you _ don't need an escort to...wherever you're going?"

"The longer the tower holds the safer we will be--not just us, everyone."

"Eh, I'll talk to my brother about it, see what we can do. We'll meet you back here at dawn, alright?"

She didn't want to delay that long, but did want to keep them happy, keep their help a possibility. She agreed, instructed her followers to set up a quick, rough camp, and spent a restless few hours trying to sleep. 

The sun was not even beginning to lighten the horizon when she showed up again to the meeting place, but she knew by the stars setting that it was close. And she'd rather wait here than keep lying down staring into darkness. It was just as well she did, because Celegorm, accompanied by several associates, met her only a few minutes after she arrived; they must have been equally eager to see the night pass.

"Curufin, son of Feanor," a shorter, slightly more kempt elf greeted her, and she'd trained herself not to shy away this time. "I've given some thought to your plight, Finduilas," he continued before she could introduce herself in return, "and I think we may be able to do as you've requested. Do you know whether Nargothrond has received any word of the attack yet?"

"My father sent messengers on ahead as soon as we knew what was happening and they should reach Finrod within a few days. But Nargothrond isn't designed to field large armies quickly; it took reinforcements weeks to arrive last time. I honestly don't know if they'll last that long without help."

"It does sound like they are in sore need of our aid. And couldn't forgive myself if I were to pass up a chance to thwart the Enemy's designs. How does this sound: Celegorm and I will take a couple thousand of our people that are in the best shape and go north to Minas Tirith. The remainder can head south with you as far as they're allowed; even our weakest should be an asset rather than a hindrance."

She caught his unasked question. "We have plenty of Men and Noldor among our own company. We'll be making for Nargothrond."

"Excellent. I'll send my son Celebrimbor with you as well; he should have no problem keeping our people in line." She felt uneasy at the implication that she might not have been able to manage them herself. Did he have little faith in her, or in his own people?

"Huan can come with you too," Celegorm added. "You couldn't ask for a better guard."

The dog whined and pawed at the ground as if he knew he was being sent away from the fighting and hated it.

"We are not having this conversation again," Celegorm turned to him. "I said no. I don't know why you're so eager to tempt fate."

Huan chuffed, but stilled his agitation. Maybe he did understand, at that.

"Thank you so much for agreeing to help. Please get to them as soon as you can, every hour could make a difference."

Curufin nodded. "We're already preparing to depart and will make all haste. I would have us remembered as valuable allies." 

They discussed exact numbers and supplies and logistics for a few minutes, then parted to convey it all to their respective aides. As the sun rose, she was approached by an elf with the same cutting eyes as Curufin, but taller and milder seeming.

"Lady Finduilas? Celebrimbor son of Curufin. I hope we'll be able to work well together."

She inclined her head. "Pleased to meet you."

 

* * *

 

When Gwindor overheard the messenger report that Minas Tirith was under attack, he managed to wait about twenty seconds before he burst into the throne room and approached the King.

He didn't even have to ask; the plea in his eyes must have been enough. "Go," said Felagund with a small smile and a wave of his hand. "I will trust you to use your best judgement, Gwindor, but you may take as many people as you think you'll need in the advance company while we figure things out here. Morgaladh can give you all the information we have."

If the king had given him strict limits on what resources he could draw on, he might have pushed and wheedled for as much more as he could get. By leaving everything to Gwindor's own judgement, he forced him to keep the needs of the kingdom in the front of his mind. 

What he heard of the attacking force sounded worrying indeed, but he couldn't forget the disaster of the Dagor Bragollach. Racing everyone out with no preparation would do them no good except to get more people killed.

He chose his followers carefully--just a few who he thought would work the best in small, tactical strikes. They pushed themselves and their horses past comfort but not to exhaustion, always reserving enough strength to fight at the end.

On the fourth morning after they left, Aiwinel, his second in command, was the first one to see the large company approaching from the north. Gwindor was the first to see Finduilas riding in front of them. He nudged Galithil into a gallop-- what had they restrained themselves for if not for this? As he drew nearer, he was relieved to see she looked tired but uninjured.

He glanced behind him--a couple of his fellows had kept pace with him while the rest hung back. Good. Finduilas had leaned over to talk to an Elf he didn't recognize, despite all the time he'd spent at Minas Tirith. Then she looked ahead, and the instant she recognized him, her face lit up with a gorgeous smile.

They both seemed to silently agree that now was not the time to dismount and fling themselves at each other, as much as they wanted to. He settled for pulling off a glove and holding her hand in his, thanking fate as he revelled in its living warmth.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you much more about the current state of things," she told him when he asked. "My father got us out within a few hours after he sent the first messengers. However, I do have one piece of good news that you won't have heard. We met with Celebrimbor's father and uncle, my cousins Curufin and Celegorm, and their followers, not long into our journey." She gestured to the unfamiliar elf. "They've been surviving in the perilous lands north of Doriath since they were driven out of their own lands by the Enemy nearly a year ago. But I talked them into taking about two thousand of those who were hale enough to go and aid my father and mother. The rest came with us."

She was proud of her accomplishment, he could tell. This was what she'd been working toward and hoping herself capable of, and it looked amazing on her. "That is good news. Good for you. On our side of things, you’ll be glad to hear the rest of Nargothrond's army is mustering behind us. I'm not sure exactly how far off they'll be. You know the king loves your father, he'd do anything for him--"

"But caution is important as well. If the enemy is to be defeated, we must not throw away resources at a hopeless defeat. I know." She was trying not to cry. Why couldn't he protect her from all of this?

He didn't know if his next decision was selfish or selfless or merely exchanging one personal desire for another. But he couldn't leave her again, not now. "If they've been reinforced by that many already, perhaps our help is not so necessary. I'll send word back of the situation as you understand it, and see you all safely to Nargothrond, all right?" He consulted with Aiwinel, who assured him that they could find their way north very well without him, and assigned Ringlin, his best rider, to carry word back to Felagund.

He tried to get to know Celebrimbor on the ride back, whenever his attention wasn't fixed on Finduilas. But her kinsman remained polite but withdrawn whenever he was spoken to, answering all questions briefly if thoughtfully and offering no further information or questions of his own. She'd said his father and uncle were embroiled in the battle up north. He probably had a lot on his mind.

Once they arrived at Nargothrond, Finduilas threw herself into settling her people into their new dwelling with rather more of her attention than might have been necessary, not that he blamed her. Gwindor set himself to helping Rodnor in particular reaccustom himself to underground living and offered the poor youth what distractions he could while they all waited, suspended between grief and hope.

  
  


* * *

 

Finduilas had to remind herself there would be no dawn light here to tell her when she could stop attempting to sleep. She was just deciding to give up on the possibility of any further rest when a soft knock on her door was followed by Gwindor's voice. "Faelivrin? I don't mean to disturb you, but if you're awake--there's news."

And if he came anyway at this hour, it was important. She didn't even bother making herself decent before cracking her door open and asking, "What is it?"

By his face, not the best of tidings. "Nargothrond's army is on its way back. Didn't even make it across the Taeglin before they met with--with the retreating forces from Minas Tirith."

"It's--" her throat closed around any further speech.

"I don't have much more than that, I'm sorry, scouts were sent back with word as soon as they came into sight and were identified. They are pretty sure your father leads them."

"And m-my mother?"

"I don't know," he whispered apologetically.

Finduilas leaned into him and let him hold her as she took trembling breaths. She hadn't hoped for a miraculous victory, but at the same time she  _ had _ , that was what hope was  _ for, _ and it had never failed her so completely before.

She decided against waking Rodnor until they had more information. She made a desultory round of the people who'd followed her here, doing her best to reassure those who'd already heard the news. Then she dozed against Gwindor's shoulder as he attended to the ordinary business that accompanied a prince of Nargothrond, which he'd been neglecting in favor of the current crisis. "The harvest in the southern provinces was bountiful this year," he mentioned at one point. "We won't have any trouble feeding some additional mouths."

"That's good," she murmured.

She couldn't protect Rodnor from true tidings or rumors forever, so she did her best to talk through things with him as information trickled in. It was soon confirmed that their father had survived, though their mother's fate was still uncertain. When Rodnor could no longer bear the waiting and asked to be allowed to ride out and meet them, she had to remind herself several times that she was responsible for his safety before she reluctantly told him no instead of offering to go with him.

Finally, after days of waiting, she relented enough that they were both there to meet him, along with a small crowd of others, when the returning armies crossed the Narog. Her father was mounted, but not on any horse she knew from Minas Tirith. He looked half-alive, though with no serious wounds, as if his mind, or perhaps his heart, was elsewhere. He managed only a small smile when he saw his children had arrived safely.

As if they needed any more confirmation, Uncle Finrod was the one to tell them that their mother had not survived. She'd wielded her power even as the wall was breached and the tower invaded, until she'd been pierced by an unlucky arrow. She, like all the rest of the fallen, had been left behind without a proper burial.

It seemed unreal, that her mother was now separated from her by a vast ocean and the doom of the Valar. She kept catching herself unconsciously thinking of her mother as visiting her kin in the mountains as she sometimes did, or back at Minas Tirith with important work to do. Before she remembered.

She and her father and Rodnor all tried to comfort each other as best they could, but none of them had much of the will for it. Gwindor was an invaluable support to her, but his own losses were still raw on his heart. It was at once appreciated and maddening that no one really expected anything of her.

After several days, her father came to her and really talked to her for the first time since they’d arrived. She listened as he poured out a fuller account of her mother's death, every valiant action she'd taken and every regret that he couldn't protect her.

"But Finduilas, I don't only say this because--because you deserve to hear it. There's something important we need to discuss.  The last thing your mother told me, when she was so deep in Song she'd nearly become one with it--" He shook his head. "I don't want to sound like I have no faith in-- I never,  _ never _ felt like I was choosing her over the family of my birth, no matter what anyone thought. But she--she said--"

Finduilas gripped his hand tightly and gave him all the time he needed.

"She foresaw that the Enemy will continue to advance, until nowhere is safe. Nargothrond will not be the last kingdom to fall. Nor will Doriath."

"Do you--" She knew this was so, so difficult for him, but she had to know why he would say this. "Do you think she spoke truly?"

"I know this: true or not, she said it because she wanted me to keep our children safe."

Her stomach dropped an instant before he said what she feared.

"Right now I have it in my power to respect her final wish. I don't want you or Rodnor to stay here. You can take some time to rest and recover but then--I'll send you to Cirdan, maybe. He is old, and wise, and may be able to protect you when I cannot."

She knew him well enough that she could see him wavering even as he said it. No matter how much he loved and trusted their mother, not all of him could ever believe them safer out of his sight than within it.  She would have no difficulty pushing him to get what she wanted, even if she felt awful doing it. But she just couldn't say goodbye again, not now. "Send Rodnor if you must. I can't leave you here alone."

"Oh, dearest--I won't be--I know you have your reasons for wanting to remain, but--"

"I'm old enough to protect myself if I have to, and make myself useful in the meantime." She no more than hoped both those things were true at this point, but they were the best arguments she had.

"I will not compel you, but I still strongly advise you not to stay here indefinitely."

"I'm staying," she repeated firmly. "I'm sure we'll be alright. Will you still send Rodnor, alone?"

"Yes, I-- yes. I think I must. It will be terribly hard on him, especially at a time like this, but he is resilient. I think… Are you sure you won't--?"

She shook her head. She couldn't, not even for her brother's sake. She knew Rodnor would probably be safer if he went, though she still couldn't help feeling that she was abandoning her little brother to an unknown fate. But she feared her soul would rip itself in half if she tried to leave Nargothrond again.

Rodnor didn't protest, at least not where she could see. His normal exuberance had been frightfully subdued since they'd fled their home. Still, she delayed his departure as long as she could, until her father had to gently inform her that he knew what she was doing and, if she still couldn't be convinced to accompany him, it was time to say goodbye.

She saw him off. He gave her only one longing look back. Then she returned underground and tried to figure out what her life was going to look like now.


	9. Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finduilas tries to figure out what she's supposed to be doing. Celebrimbor is a huge nerd, and his dad is a huge creep. Gwindor "Leeroy Jenkins" son of Guilin somehow manages to avoid death by werewolf.

"You can check my figures," Finduilas said at last, "but if the wardens' reports are accurate, I think we'll want to not only allow people to hunt on your land come fall, but encourage it, or the deer will eat the forests bare by spring." She walked over to set her work down in front of Gwindor and stood over him as he reviewed it.

He gave it a perfunctory glance. "Seems right. I trust you were careful, anyhow. I'll let Carannen know." He sighed and stretched. "What's next?"

She mentally ran over the list she'd made that morning. "That's all, I think. We won't really be able to start planning the winter stores until we get the next report on how the harvest is coming, so for today I believe we’re done."

"Really? It's barely afternoon.” He gazed at her fondly. “How did I ever get along without you?"

"If you'd ever hired a secretary I'm sure you'd have gotten on just as well."

"Can't be, I'd waste too much time missing you."

She leaned down to kiss him solidly on the lips, then yipped as he put his hands around her waist and pulled her into his lap. Once she'd regained her balance, she grinned and curled a finger teasingly around a dark lock of hair. For the next several minutes, the only sounds in the room were the press of their lips against each other's skin and their occasional gasps for breath. Finduilas shifted slightly as Gwindor slid his hand underneath her thigh, and let the shift become more of a wiggle because it just felt  _ so good _ \--

"We should stop--" she whispered as he kissed along her neck with a force that must be leaving marks.

Gwindor gave her a pained look. But he nodded and moved his hands to a more seemly position on her upper back as she curled in and laid her head on his shoulder.

She aided his endeavors in every way a wife should. She couldn't imagine she would be more devastated if he were to fall in battle. She seemed to be taking on all the drawbacks of marriage and reaping none of the benefits. It was all so unfair. Why  _ shouldn't _ they just--

But Grandfather Angrod was no longer around to scowl and lecture her on Proper Noldorin Values and be placated by a smile and a few well-chosen words from his favorite granddaughter. She hadn't any chance now of winning him around to approval, or at least acceptance, even if she thought she could convince her father and Uncle Finrod. And it seemed disgraceful to take advantage of the fact that he wasn't around to object.

One day. One day there would be no war, and no danger, and no Enemy. They had the whole lifetime of Arda. She could wait. Wait long enough and anything might happen. One day they might even have more than two parents between them to help them with their vows.

"Sorry," she said hoarsely when she realized she was soaking his shirt with her tears. "Didn't mean to turn so melancholy all of a sudden."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing new, just--everything."

"If there were  _ anything _ I could do…"

"No, you're wonderful." She tightened her grip around him briefly. "If you weren't letting me help you, I don't know how I’d occupy myself. I really thought I'd have--settled in, found my place here by now. But looking back, I barely knew who I was at Minas Tirith. And now everyone who came with us has transitioned very gracefully to living under my uncle's rule--well, all of my father's people, you know, not--"

"I know." His expression seemed to darken, but she hadn't meant to turn the conversation to her personal troubles, much less politics, and he thankfully didn't elaborate.

"I feel like if I don't know what I ought to apply myself to, I could at least be doing more for my father. But I just--If knew what to do of course I wouldn't hesitate. And then I wonder if I should just let him grieve, if I only want to change him for the sake of my own feelings. If  _ I'm _ the one who doesn't miss her  _ enough-- _ "

"Sshhh. No one doubts that you loved her. Everyone takes it differently, that's all. And it's always difficult to see someone you love in pain. That speaks well of you too. I think there are ways you can draw him out more that will be good for him and you. My mother's rather thrown herself into her art these past few years. It's helped a little, I think."

Her eyes flicked to the drawing of her still prominently displayed on Gwindor's desk. "That's not a bad idea. Maybe I'll mention it." She sat up and wiped her eyes. "Sorry to unload all of this on you."

"Part of a husband's duty, isn't it? I couldn't rightly say I loved you otherwise. Besides, I'm sure it will be your turn to listen to all of my woes soon enough."

She sighed. "I just wish the war was over and everything was set right and I could marry you once and for all."

"So do I, love."

Nevertheless, they mutually decided it would be less taxing on their personal willpower to spend the rest of the day somewhere more public. After aimlessly wandering the corridors hand-in-hand for a while, they found Finduilas's father seated on a bench in one of the large, high-ceilinged caverns. Between the Feanorian lamps and the intricate carvings of trees and flowers, one could almost pretend one was not living underground.

Her father showed more emotion than usual in greeting them. But their conversation died after they'd exchanged only a few words. Her father had seen no one, done nothing of interest since the last time they'd spoken, and showed only the most cursory attention to what she had to tell of her own recent activities. She did think to ask if he could draw her likeness again some time--perhaps something to send to Rodnor? He agreed without any particular enthusiasm that it sounded like a good idea.

She made a valiant attempt to engage Gwindor in some subject that they hadn't already covered extensively between them and wouldn't be too upsetting to any of the involved parties. She was nearly ready to give up when she caught Celebrimbor passing through, turning over some small piece of metal in his hands and muttering to himself.

"Good afternoon, Celebrimbor. Won't you show us what you're working on?" She invited him over to sit with them. The risk whenever asking after Celebrimbor's latest project was that one  _ would be told _ . But she did like him, he deserved a chance to unleash his passion for knowledge to someone who would listen, and she never knew what her father would respond to.

"Ah, it's not really anything yet, just an idea. See, I was thinking, we've gotten quite good at making fire arrows, for things that are harmed by fire. Wooden fortifications and orcs and so forth. But against a Balrog, and probably those nasty fire-lizards as well, that sort of thing is useless, or worse. So I wondered, how would one go about constructing the opposite of that, a 'cold arrow' as it were? The problem being, of course, that heat and cold are not, strictly speaking, opposites."

"They aren't?" Finduilas prompted politely.

"Like light and dark," her father commented, but didn't elaborate further.

"Yes, precisely," Celebrimbor seemed to grasp what he was getting at nonetheless, "that's another way of looking at it, if it helps. One is the presence of something, the other an absence. There is in theory no limit to the amount of light, or heat, you can have, given a concentrated enough energy source. Take the Sun, for example, the mere fruit of Laurelin, and compare it to Laurelin itself--which you two are too young to remember, I suppose--my point being that at a given distance Laurelin was at least an order of magnitude brighter. And we could posit an object an order of magnitude brighter and hotter than that, although at some point you lose the ability to form coherent matter. Which would be extremely useful for inflicting on your enemies if you could protect yourself from it. But, regardless. In contrast, you can easily imagine a complete absence of light--"

"Or remember it," said her father.

"Yes I suppose that's-- _ spiders! _ " He abruptly quieted and stared off into the distance for several seconds, racing along a train of thought only he could follow.

"Spiders?" Gwindor asked at last. "I apologize, but I'm not sure I quite follow."

"Aule’s braided  _ beard! _ We fought our way through the Valley of Death by Spider for an entire  _ year _ , and I never-- So I was working on a veined design which would make substantial use of Dwarven arts," he showed them the piece of metal in his hands, an elongated arrowhead which resembled a feather, etched with numerous parallel grooves, "my main design obstacle being that if you cool something the heat has to go  _ somewhere _ ."

"But the spiders...can weave webs of shadow?" Finduilas hazarded a guess at the direction of his thoughts.

"Yes! They possess some energy-eating capability which, for reasons I cannot now fathom, have not yet been well studied. I wonder how hard it would be to convince--" Something caught his attention, and he frowned. "Well, I have a lot to think about now, it seems. I still have quite a bit of work to do, as I said," he finished hurriedly.

What had changed his mood all of a sudden? Finduilas looked over her shoulder. Celebrimbor's father Curufin was making his way over to them. Celebrimbor watched him almost warily as he approached.

Curufin gave him only a nod before taking a seat next to Finduilas's father. "Orodreth," Curufin slid in and put an arm around his shoulders. Finduilas flinched on his behalf, although he barely reacted. Curufin was gregarious enough, but she didn't know if he was this...intimate...with anyone else. "I was glad to hear that the unpleasantness between Morgaladh and our Thindang had been resolved without any further trouble."

Her father looked at Curufin and only nodded silently. 

"I disliked the rumors I was beginning to hear, that Thindang had been the one responsible for the altercation. Some were even calling for a judgement other than his lord's. Who knows what could have happened if things were allowed to escalate," said Curufin as he softly stroked her father's back. "Finrod is lucky to have someone who can make sure he hears the truth."

Finduilas bit her lip. The truth, was it? Gwindor had been there when the fight had started, and that was not how he'd described the matter to her. According to him, Morgaladh had been the picture of patience against heavy provocation and even veiled threats. None of the long-time residents of Nargothrond had held him to blame when he'd finally lashed out, and they'd been furious when Celegorm had done nothing to censure his retainer.

"We've tried very hard to foster good relations between our peoples," Curufin continued. "I do so appreciate the effort you've put in to making that happen."

"Thank you." Orodreth leaned in to Curufin's shoulder.

Curufin smiled. "You'll let me know if there's any further issue that I should be aware of?"

"Of course."

Curufin trailed a finger along her father's cheekbone and lightly kissed his forehead. "Excellent. I'm so glad there's someone here I can rely on."

Finduilas grimaced. As much as she felt cheered in spite of herself to hear of her father taking an interest in doing anything, she did not at all like the idea of him lying to the King on the Feanorion's behalf. She hoped perhaps that it had been unintentional, that he merely saw things differently, or had been misinformed.

And she wanted to be open-minded about…whatever was going on between them. She knew he still missed her mother terribly, and really didn't begrudge whatever emotional or physical needs her father was having met. And yet…

She glanced over at Celebrimbor. He didn't look any more pleased than she was. In fact, he seemed almost embarrassed.

With a last lingering caress, Curufin stood and bade them farewell. Celebrimbor seemed to have gone completely listless. When he made to exit in the opposite direction soon after, Finduilas found an excuse to follow after him.

"If you don't want to discuss it, I won't ask," Finduilas started as she walked beside him, "but perhaps there's some insight I lack that will help me to understand...all this...that you could provide?"

"No, there's--look, I am so sorry," Celebrimbor sighed. "I think he--no, actually, I have no explanation for this that reflects well on both of them, so I'm not even going to try."

_ Reflects well on both of them?  _ What exactly was he assuming about her father? Well, Finduilas valued Celebrimbor's friendship, and hesitated to press him into saying something they might both regret. "Do you think one of us ought to intervene?"

Celebrimbor did not answer for many strides. "I don't believe your father is in any danger. If it bothers you, you should talk to him. I will talk to mine if you want me to, but I don't expect I'll be able to sway him from doing whatever he wants."

Why did he obviously fear his own father so much?  _ Not in any danger _ , he'd said, but why would it even occur to him to mention the possibility?

* * *

Gwindor had never considered himself a coward. Had never even had to seriously confront the possibility. Yet he couldn't make himself move from the silent throng to the dais on which the King and his family stood. 

A silmaril from Morgoth's crown. And if the dark Vala and his myriad monstrosities didn't kill them, Nargothrond's honored guests had sworn they would. The King had tried to explain the quest, and his decision to involve himself in it, in a way that seemed reasonable. But however steadfast he'd once been, Gwindor could not find a way to make himself agree.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Twelve years ago, he would have been first in line. It wouldn't even have been a question. What could be nobler than a quest in the name of true love to the heart of Angband itself? And besides, he owed his life to Barahir and his son no less than the King did.

He'd like to think that the sons of Feanor had not power to sway his heart to disloyalty. But not everyone had been saved that day. They had borne the consequences of boldness and bravery, and he could taste the bitterness of it still. How much could be sacrificed in the name of one couple's love, however fated? Was his own love worth any less?

He expected that many in Nargothrond, more timid than he, would demure against such odds. But as the silence stretched on, he realized with unease growing into horror that not a single person had spoken in the King's support. Not one. His heart misgave him. Surely the King knew well what he asked of them. Was he to second guess his wisdom?

The clatter of the crown echoed off the cavern walls.

When Edrahil and a few others finally stepped forward to reaffirm their fealty, Gwindor remained motionless, now out of shame. He'd missed the opportunity to prove his integrity, and there was no recapturing it. A latecome declaration from him would be but hollow affectation, mere proof that he could be swayed by any prevailing wind.

What must his dear Faelivrin think of him? Faithless to her family, how could she ever believe him committed to her? She who had always striven and prepared to fight, no matter how much he yearned to protect her. She stood beside her father and uncle, serene and steadfast, and he dared not meet her eye.

Once Orodreth was named regent, the crowd exploded into sound and motion. Everyone now had something to say, it seemed. Gwindor staggered into the corridor and walked without heed of where his feet carried him, until he could no longer hear their voices.

He leaned against a cool stone wall and tried to collect himself. But his mind would not move past the distress of having so thoroughly betrayed his own principles. For once in his life he could see no clear path forward, no future that he did not recoil from. Every loyal follower willing to die for the King would die with him, and Nargothrond would be left a kingdom of faithless cravens.

He startled at the feather-light weight of a hand on his shoulder "There you are!" Finduilas said. "I looked away for a moment and you'd disappeared." 

A knot formed in Gwindor's throat and he couldn't find anything worth saying enough to fight past it. She didn't sound angry or disappointed--but she should be.

Finduilas sighed and shook her head. "If you ever hear me say 'I don't have enough to do' or 'I wish my father would engage more'-- _ please _ tell me to just shut my mouth. I don't need another situation like this dropped on my head."

"You'll do just fine, I'm sure," he responded woodenly.

"I'm a little surprised you didn’t try to join their quest. Not that I'm complaining." She wrapped both of her hands tightly around one of his, and it was too much. He began to weep.

It took several minutes of soft words and soothing touches from her before he could compose himself enough to express in words the bitter shame twisting in his heart. "When my honor was called upon I stood silent and did  _ nothing _ . My king goes to his death and I convinced myself I should just  _ let _ him."

"You were hardly the only one. And they might--" she bit her lip and blinked her eyes. "Oh dear, now you've got me crying. They might yet survive."

He gave her a disbelieving look.

"Please," she whispered. "Sometimes unreasonable hope sustains us when nothing else is left. And fate can turn when we least expect it."

"Of course. Perhaps fate will be kind for once." He pulled her close to him and her warm presence helped to clear his mind. "But I cannot allow my duty to lie unfulfilled. I must speak to the king, even if it is little and late atonement. I will surrender myself to his judgement. If he calls on me to serve him, I will go."

"I won't tell you to refuse." Even with her pressed against his chest, her voice sounded so small. 

This was why. This was why his courage had failed him. He'd forgotten everything he knew about her if he expected her to be disappointed in him for not rushing into danger. But this was more important than her, or him, or them. What was he, if he could not keep his word? No better than a lurking animal.

He gave his Faelivrin a long, lingering kiss and let it strengthen him. "Thank you."

He hesitated outside the King's chambers, doubting again how he would be received. Before he approached, the door opened and Beren slipped out, passing by Gwindor without speaking a word. The King caught his eye. "Gwindor. Come in." His smile didn't seem to have his usual energy behind it.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Gwindor dropped to his knees before his king. "Your Majesty, truly did you deem I had forgotten my bond to you, and--words cannot express my remorse--but I swear to you--"

"No," Felagund interrupted him, "Don't. Get up. No need to get dramatic just because I couldn't resist the indulgence."

Gwindor obeyed, and got to his feet, but kept his head bowed and awaited his king's word. He raised his eyes only slightly when the King came and held him by the shoulders.

"In my efforts to sway the weakest hearts, I fear I have wounded some of the most valiant. I am sorry for that."

Gwindor shook his head. "You needn't apologize to me, your majesty. Some heard and obeyed. I was not one of them."

"Not for any love should the gates of Angband be assailed carelessly, Gwindor. I know you. That you did not speak immediately only means that you have grown in wisdom."

"Even so, if you would have me go with you, I will go."

"You will not," Felagund countered. "I do not doubt your loyalty, or your courage. But it is a selfish thing that I am doing, in fact. I've grown tired of waiting wary in the shadows, and I intend to have my chance at storied valor, before the end comes. Yet I am afraid yours will have to wait, at least for now. While Orodreth rules in my absence, however long that may be, he will need faithful allies as well. I'd hoped my cousins would not prove so troublesome, but there we are. I need someone here who I can trust to watch his back if he won't do it himself." 

He should have trusted his King’s wisdom from the start. "Of course, Your Majesty."

"Besides, I may have had the foresight to remain good and unattached myself, but Finduilas would never forgive me if I dragged you away again so soon. Go tell her the good news. I have a journey to prepare for."

Gwindor bowed and left the King's chambers. Finduilas, as expected was thrilled to hear that he would be staying.

The king departed three days later with Beren and only ten others. All of Nargothrond waited for news.


	10. Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finduilas puts on her Nancy Drew hat and solves a mystery. Celebrimbor is unexpectedly helpful. Orodreth takes out the trash.

Finduilas stalked in frustration down yet another one of Nargothrond's endless tunnels. She didn't come to the northeast wing often--the Feanorians had thoroughly claimed it as their own. But she had looked literally everywhere else with no success.

She couldn't help blaming herself, a little. In Minas Tirith, she would have personally seen to the accommodations of such an honored guest, or at the very least have  _ known _ where they were roomed. Since the move to Nargothrond, though, she'd gotten into the regrettable habit of assuming someone else was taking care of it, even after her father took over leadership. And now she'd lost a princess.

She'd been to Menegroth exactly once in her life, when she was still a child. She wouldn't presume to be close enough to Lúthien to feel entitled to her company, especially under such troubling circumstances. But her kinswoman had attended no feasts, asked for no counsel. Finduilas couldn't find a single person who would admit to having spoken to her in the last week. And if she was here, that could be a problem all on its own.

She heard claws clicking on the stone floor moments before Celegorm appeared in front of her, Huan inevitably at his heels. "Cousin." He made the slightest of bows. "Do you need something?"

"Oh, no, it is just that I fear I have been a frightfully negligent hostess." Finduilas tried to appear more demure than she felt. "I only wanted to check in on Princess Lúthien, and see if she needed anything."

Celegorm glanced over his shoulder, farther down the corridor. "Fortunately for you, her needs are being seen to perfectly adequately already. Some of us know how to make guests feel welcome."

_ I'm sure she's been a more gracious guest than you ever were. _ "That is good to hear. Nevertheless, I would feel more like I'd done my duty if I could speak with her for a moment. If you could just direct me?" She tried to move past him, hoping he would let her by out of instinct if she acted confidently enough.

He did not. Instead he straightened his back and took a step closer. "Lúthien is quite unhappy that there is no hope of saving her mortal lover. She would like to have some time to grieve in peace."

She wasn't too proud to admit that she'd rather have Gwindor by her side if she was going to challenge them. "Very well. If you do see her, could you at least let her know that I'm always here if she needs a sympathetic ear?"

He nodded. "Sure." Then he stared at her unblinking until she murmured her thanks and turned back the way she had come.

Five minutes later she slumped into Gwindor's arms. "How did it go?" he asked after a suitable interval. "Did you find her?"

Finduilas groaned. "Yes and no. I'm nearly certain now that she was put up in the northeast wing. But according to Celegorm, she doesn't want to see anyone right now."

"According to  _ Celegorm _ ?"

"Yes. I know. Something isn't right. He didn't  _ exactly _ force me to leave, but he did sort of--loom, until I went away. I wish you'd been there with me."

Gwindor pulled her tight against him. "If we confront them too openly, I'm honestly afraid things could turn violent. The people they command, the threats they've made--it could go so far as a second Kinslaying."

The image they'd conjured of Nargothrond flowing with Elvish blood certainly served them as an effective deterrent. "How many do you think would stand with us?"

"Not enough that I could be sure of. Plenty that would stand aside and see who came out on top." His tone made clear his disgust. "And even attempting to go to the King's aid is out of the question. Your mother herself couldn't hold the tower against those loathsome wolves and their master. I don't think even the whole of Nargothrond's forces could take it back.

"I hate that they're right about that. The more they say it, the more I want to try it just to spite them."

"I can't imagine how hard it must be for you, to know he's there and not be able to do anything."

"Of course you do; you've been nothing but loyal to him and you're practically part of the family." Finduilas sighed. "Sometimes it's harder to do the responsible thing when all you want to do is charge right in. My place is here, and I'm not even succeeding at that."

"The Feanorians obviously know more than they're saying," he mused. "Have you tried talking to Celebrimbor?"

"I hate putting him in that position. What do you do, when your family is so contemptible, but you still want to be loyal to them? But I think it might be my best chance now."

"All right." He kissed her forehead. "Good luck. Go find your princess."

Celebrimbor was easy to find. She only had to go down to the forges and there he was, as usual. The air here was much hotter and drier than in the rest of Nargothrond, and blasts of wind carrying acrid smells blew past her from every direction.

Over the whoosh of bellows and the striking of hammers, she could hear Celebrimbor singing softly to himself, a familiar tune she couldn't quite name. As she drew nearer, she realized that it wasn't just the noise of the room making the words difficult to understand--he was singing in Quenya. It came to her suddenly--her father had sung her that song when she was very young. She barely understood any of it, but she murmured along the words she remembered.

He looked up and stopped abruptly when he saw her approaching. "Finduilas." His eyes dropped immediately back to the work in front of him: some small piece of metal fixed in a stand that he dabbed at with a tiny stiff-bristled brush. "How are you today."

"Well enough, thank you. What are you working on?" she asked in lieu of getting straight to the point.

"Oh, uh…"

She leaned closer, peering at the work in front of him. A ring, silver maybe, she was no expert on metals, that he appeared to be etching some sort of design into. "Is this--"

"Careful!" He put out one leather-gloved hand to ward her off. "This stuff is corrosive, if you get it on that nice dress it will eat right through it."

She took a step back. "Sorry. Is that a betrothal ring?"

He chewed his lip for a second. "I shouldn't--I don't think they wanted to make it public knowledge just yet…"

"Never mind, then! I'll let you keep your confidence." Whoever it was, it would be hypocritical of her not to be happy for them, wouldn't it? "It's very beautiful anyway. I don't know too much about what it is you're doing, is it very difficult?"

"It, well--it's not--I think some people say it usually takes a couple of centuries to get  _ very _ good at it, but it never seemed too difficult to me?" He fidgeted with the tool in his hands. "It just takes a steady hand and some attention to detail."

"It looks marvellous and I'm sure it will make someone very happy." She couldn't keep delaying in her purpose. "Celebrimbor, part of the reason I came here was, I haven't spoken with Princess Lúthien in several days, and I'm having some trouble arranging to meet her. And I thought perhaps I could use your help with that."

Celebrimbor hunched in on himself and stared down at his workbench. "There must be someone who would be of more help than me."

No. He knew what this was about. He wished he didn't, but he knew. She put a hand on his shoulder, which felt stiff with tension. "Please? I just want to make sure she's all right."

He shook his head. "Please don't make me--" he whispered.

"I'm not going to force you to tell me anything, but I'd hope you would have some regard for what's right. For what's best for her."

She stood over him in silence for several long breaths, but he said nothing. He was trembling a little under her hand. 

"It's not fair to you, what they're doing, and I'm sure I don't know the half of it. I'd say they were no longer worthy of your loyalty, but that can be a tricky thing, with family." She still cared for her father, after all, however much of a disappointment he had been. She let her hand drop. "Take care of yourself at least, all right?"

"They swore an oath," he said before she could leave. "I'm not saying what they're doing is right, but I also don't know how much of this is them trying to stop her before she and that Man show up with a Silmaril and it drives them to something even worse. 'No love, nor law, nor league of hell'--do you understand--" He took a deep breath. "If you just want to talk to her… She's in the room past my uncle's, where the tunnel branches off and drops suddenly. It's easy to miss."

She smiled, though he still wouldn't look at her. "Thank you." They could both probably use some space from each other after that ordeal, so she left him to his work and headed back out of the forge area.

If Celebrimbor's information could be trusted, and she didn't think he'd go so far as to lie to her, then she now knew where to find Lúthien. She'd been close, before Celegorm had intercepted her. How calculated had that meeting actually been?

Supposedly Lúthien had asked to be left to her grief, but she had to eat some time, right? And if she wasn't, she should. Maybe she should ask around the kitchens.

This was another part of Nargothrond she didn't visit nearly as often as she had its counterpart at Minas Tirith. Afternoon had worn on by the time she found her way there, and dinner preparations were in full swing. Cooks and assistants bustled in every direction. Finduilas searched the crowd for someone whose name at least she knew.

"Glornath!" She pulled aside a woman who seemed to be between tasks.

"Milady?"

"I haven't seen the Princess Lúthien at dinner these past few days, and it's important to me that she receives the best hospitality Nargothrond can offer. Do you happen to have anything ready that I can bring to her?" She only needed to intrude upon the Princess's vigil for a few minutes. Just to make sure.

Glornath looked to the side, and Finduilas followed her gaze to a covered plate resting on a side table. "Lord Curufin has been fetching her dinner every day. He's--he's very particular," she raised her voice when Finduilas made a move in that direction. "No one is to deliver it but himself. I'm sure you mean well, milady, but--please, he'll be so cross--"

Finduilas tried to imagine her haughty cousin descending into this milieu and waiting personally on Doriath's princess out of the goodness of his heart. Not likely. And he had Glornath spooked for sure. She tried for a reassuring smile. "Of course, as long as our guest is well taken care of. Do you expect him soon?"

Glornath nodded. "Any time now." She looked across the room. "If you don't mind, milady--the bread will burn--"

"Oh, certainly, don't let me keep you." She stepped aside.

Glornath hurried off and Finduilas was left to think. Her stomach twisted. At best, they were deliberately isolating Lúthien. At worst, she was their prisoner.

She'd been trying to get her way through politeness, but perhaps now was the time for subterfuge. Finduilas dropped back into a disused alcove and waited. Before too long, Curufin arrived, retrieved the plate, and left without a word. Finduilas waited a full minute, then followed as silently as she could. She knew where he was going now, she only needed to see what happened when he got there.

She got just close enough to catch a glimpse of Curufin standing in front of the room Celebrimbor had described, Celegorm by his side and Huan flopped at their feet. She was no expert on dog body language, but the hound looked somehow morose. As soon as she saw them, she slipped back around a corner and listened.

"I hope you've given some more thought to our offer," Curufin was saying. If Lúthien made any reply, she couldn't hear it.

"I believe we can win your father around without your help," Curufin continued, "but wouldn't things go more smoothly if we could attest to it being your desire as well?"

That got a harsh bark of laughter out of Lúthien. "You're a fool. If he cared what I thought I wouldn't be here." Such a beautiful voice, wrapped around such bitterness.

"We are patient, my dear, and I fear the Enemy is not. With the might of two kingdoms behind us, we will be able to sweep all resistance aside, but if you remain obstinate much longer there may be nothing left to rescue." They were pushing for some sort of alliance? What incentive could they possibly offer Doriath? "There will be no question of anyone withholding from us what is ours, which is really best for everyone. And  _ we _ can promise you all the comforts befitting your station. Isn't that right, Celegorm?"

"Of course. Nothing less."

"So? What will it be, Princess?"

"Please let me go." Lúthien sounded near tears. "I want nothing to do with your accursed jewels. If you release me and return my property, I will retrieve my Beren and we will live together somewhere far from all of this. I promise that's all I desire."

She seemed very certain she could rescue her beloved, even knowing what horrors held him captive. And what property was it that had been taken from her? Theft as well, was it?

Well, she'd heard enough, and slipped away as silently as she'd come. Lúthien  _ was _ a prisoner here. This was no mere matter of ill hospitality. The Feanorians were overstepping their authority in the most reprehensible way. Hard as it would be for him, her father needed to know. He needed to do something. 

But since Lúthien didn't seem to be in immediate physical danger, Finduilas let cowardice the better of her. She delayed, waited until the morning and tried to pick a time, insofar as one existed, when her father would not be busy or stressed more than usual, to approach him. And also a time when Curufin would not be around. She knocked at his bedroom door.

"What. Is. It." came his voice from the other side. Muffled as it was, it seemed to have a far sharper tone than she'd ever heard from him before.

"It's just me, Father."

"Come in." He sounded hardly less snappish.

She entered. Her father sat at a small desk with a message of some kind gripped tightly in one hand. Her delaying hadn't done either of them any good; he looked exhausted.

Nevertheless, she took a deep breath. "Father, things can't go on the way they have been. We--we need to talk."

"I _ \--know-- _ " he hissed. "I know what you want. I know what people are saying. I know--" he waved the letter and his face crumpled in anguish. "I never asked for this, Finduilas. Not in Minas Tirith, and not here. But neither was I capable of refusing. From you at least I would have expected more assistance and less judgement." His voice was raised almost to a shout by the time he finished.

It was a reaction, at least, and not more meek avoidance. And his anger was directed at her, rather than someone who might react badly to it. She couldn't manage more than stunned silence. She was  _ not _ going to cry. 

Before she had time to respond, his face softened and he rushed over to her. "No, oh no my darling, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean--of course none of this is your fault, you've done far more than I have. It's only--I've let it all sit and fester, what I was too weak, too afraid to face, and now it's come to this--"

"What is it?" she asked softly, gesturing at his desk.

He silently handed her a page of fine parchment, edged in gold. The letters on it were Daeron's runes, not Feanorian letters. It took a moment for her mind to adjust before she began to read.

_ His Majesty Elu Thingol, Son of the Stars, King of Beleriand, Lord of Neldoreth, Nivrim, and Region, Master of the Thousand Caves, to Orodreth Angrodion sends this admonition: _

_ I expect you have heard by now of my daughter’s ill-considered departure from the realm of our protection. I can only hope that you were somehow unaware of the messages I have received from those you are unlucky enough to call kin. They claimed to be the rulers of Nargothrond, and proposed an alliance of marriage between my most cherished offspring and one of their so-called princes.The thought of her union with a mortal Man was grief enough; obviously, wedding my daughter to the slayers of our kin is out of the question, even if she were willing.  _

_ It matters little if you knew about this or if you merely let it happen out of negligence. Perhaps Finrod had more faith in you than he ought; your father, Mandos rest his soul, had a much clearer idea which of his blood could be trusted and which could not.  If Nargothrond continues to serve the cause of red-handed ship-burners, it will find other friends harder to come by. Therefore I command you thus: first, the bearer of this message will escort Lúthien home immediately. And second, you will take control of the people of Nargothrond and allow no other to claim sovereignty over them; if you cannot, I have ready those who can. _

No wonder her father was upset. " _ Marry _ her?” she breathed. “No, she would never-- what have they done?" So that was their plan. An  _ alliance _ indeed. She turned to her father in horror. " _ Did _ you know about this?"

"No, love, I--I swear it. I am guilty only of appalling carelessness.” He buried his face in his hands “I have let Curufin...use me for his purposes, true, but he must know I could not stand by for this. He has grown proud indeed if he thought for a moment that Thingol would submit to his demands."

"They were trying to talk her into agreeing to it herself--I overheard them last night. But they were growing impatient. You don't think they would _ \--force _ her--" The mere thought made her sick. That someone she shared blood with--that any elf at all could-- 

"Lúthien has her own strengths. If they did try, the two of them alone couldn't manage it. I'd like to say they couldn't find anyone who would aid them in such depravity, but lately…" He shook his head.

This couldn't continue. She didn't care if it did come to open conflict. Violence was happening in Nargothrond already, and if no one else would oppose it, she would. "Father, I have to do something." She handed the parchment back to him.

"Go. Do what you can. I'll support you whatever happens. There's a couple of people I can talk to in the meantime. Just--please don't go alone?"

She tried to smile reassuringly. "I won't."

She hurried past Gwindor's office and dragged him along with only the briefest explanation of what was going on. He didn't hesitate to follow at her side.

They heard raised voices as they approached. Celegorm and Curufin stood just outside Lúthien's door, in furious conversation. "--if it weren’t for that  _ worthless cur-- _ "

"You  _ shut your mouth _ , Curvo. He would  _ never  _ betray me. She has--powerful enchantments, she could have--"

"Curufin!” Finduilas did not hesitate to interrupt. “A word with you. Now." Her chance of talking him around or even intimidating him into anything was slim, but she needed to start somewhere.

"I have no time for your frivolities at present, Finduilas," Curufin growled.

"Imprisoning women is a game to you, is it?" Now she had both of their full attention. It took her a moment to realize what seemed off. Then she saw it--or didn’t, rather. "Celegorm, where  _ is  _ Huan?"

Celegorm's lip curled "That is not your concern."

She seized on the moment of emotional unbalance and charged toward them; in a moment they moved to intercept her. She glanced at Gwindor, who grappled with Celegorm just enough to make them react. She ducked under Curufin's arm, sprinted past him, leaped down a few steps and threw open the door.

The room was silent and empty. A few strands of long, dark hair wafted along the floor.

* * *

News of Lúthien's imprisonment may have been kept largely secret, but news of her escape could not be. Gwindor heard tell of it from at least five different people by nightfall. Of course it hardly made a dent in her captors' popularity, or make the people of Nargothrond any more inclined to ride out and aid their King. They seemed to treat the whole thing as akin to rumors of a salacious love affair and not the atrocity that it was. Gwindor supposed that they had made their choice, and didn't want to see any reason to rethink it.

Finduilas, on the other hand, had reached her breaking point. She no longer needed to worry about Lúthien's safety--at least at the hands of her cousins--but she was obviously through with letting them do as they pleased.

"If we could convince even a quarter of the people to stand with us--they would at least be the most valiant quarter, that has to count for more, right?" she reasoned as she paced restlessly up and down the small, remote parlor they'd ensconced themselves in. The Feanorians were fools if they didn't expect some sort of resistance at this point, but he and Finduilas still had no desire to expose their plans before they'd made them.

He hardly knew whether he wanted to talk her down or goad her on. Nothing about the political situation had changed. He still feared how easily things could turn bloody. But given what had already occurred, perhaps they merely faced a choice between evils.

"I'd like to think so,” he responded. “Those with the best judgement may be too much to ask for, but certainly the bravest."

"Well, that's the trouble, isn't it, that we keep--"

Finduilas froze as the door clicked open, then relaxed when Orodreth entered. "I did find you, after all," he said. Finduilas smiled and embraced her father. "We had little time to talk yesterday, but I am still committed to taking Nargothrond back into hand." He looked terrified at the prospect, but at least he wasn't letting that stop him. "I can count on the two of you to help me, can't I?"

"Of course, Father, we were discussing just now how we might do that. I am sure with your support it will be much easier." Well, putting up a positive front probably helped, regardless of how true that was.

"Thank you so much, my darling. What are the state of your plans so far?"

Before Finduilas could answer, all three of them turned toward a soft, quick knock on the door. After a glance toward Gwindor, which he understood as a request to be on his guard, Finduilas opened the door.

Celebrimbor stood there. "Hello," he said with a clear edge of nervousness in his voice. "I'm sorry to--well, no, that's not true, I did come to speak with you, and I understand why you might not want me to, but I thought it was important--and you might disagree with me on that--"

"Come in," said Findiilas softly and stepped aside for him to enter.

"I thought about what you said, Finduilas. And I think things have been getting worse than I wanted to admit for a while now." Celebrimbor was trembling a little. "My father can't be allowed to succeed in gaining power if this is how he's going to go about it. And if I can help you in any way to stop him, I--I want to do that."

He seemed sincere but Gwindor was not an infallible judge of character. They could hear him out, but he wasn't prepared to trust him completely yet.

"I very much appreciate that, Celebrimbor," Finduilas said, laying a gentle hand on his arm.

The four of them sat together and discussed numbers and tactics and likely outcomes. Celebrimbor denied that he could be of much help subverting anyone from the inside; he claimed he hardly knew anyone who was more loyal to him than to his father. But he posited some interesting ideas nonetheless. 

"Now from the social angle," he said, "it seems to me that we--that is, my father--has acquired his following largely by convincing them of the wisdom of isolation and secrecy, and the folly of any attempted offensive. Most likely, he is correct, whether or not he has an ulterior motive for wanting them to think so. However, in the unlikely event that he is proven wrong somehow, I believe you may be able to leverage that against them. And the more you convince everyone to associate them with that position, the more, ah, social potential energy as it were there could be in the breach. Paradoxically, by rigorous reinforcement of what they themselves have said, you can make their position seem much more precarious should they be proven wrong. And if not, you have at least demonstrated to them the utmost loyalty, however useful you may find that. In the end, you benefit either way."

That was a lot to follow, but after mulling it over for a few seconds Gwindor thought he got it. "And then what, we march on Tol Sirion?" It could be just a means of encouraging them to eliminate themselves.

"No, that wasn't what I--from what I understand, Princess Lúthien is headed there already, and Huan may be with her as well."

"A Maia's daughter and a Vala's hound," Finduilas mused. "Do you think they have any chance?"

"She evidently thinks she does," Celebrimbor replied. "I did say it was a risk."

"Yes," said Orodreth. "Forgive me, but you must admit we have little reason to trust your motives."

"I haven't made any factual claims," said Celebrimbor, spreading his hands. "You can evaluate my logic for yourself as much as you like."

"It might be worth trying, at least for a little while," Finduilas suggested. "We can always save bloody revolution for later."

They all agreed to think it over for a couple of days. Before they'd even come to a consensus, though, Gwindor found himself agreeing with anyone who mentioned the wisdom of caution the Feanorians were urging. It was just so easy, pushing on them ever so slightly to more closely associate the two.

Orodreth did his best to rein in their most egregious abuses of power, with Finduilas and Gwindor working to enforce his word as best they could. Celebrimbor did suggest he avoid giving any orders he thought would be outright disobeyed, in order to project an image of strength. Gwindor reluctantly agreed this was a good idea, however little it did to make Celebrimbor look more trustworthy.

The atmosphere in Nargothrond became increasingly tense, with everyone trying to feel out where everyone else stood without revealing too much of their own loyalties. Gwindor definitely suspected that their side was gaining ground, and he became more and more tempted to oust the Feanorians by force. However, he heeded Orodreth every time he said, "Not yet."

He was present the day a small group of worn, pitiful-looking travellers were brought before Orodreth, escorted by a familiar looking, excessively large hound. All of them looked just this side of alive; at least one of them had a festering wound he could smell from across the room.

"Naegnest!" Finduilas breathed when she caught sight of the woman who led them. One of the scouts had apparently loaned her their cloak; the dress beneath it was no more than a web of tatters. "Is it truly you? When you didn't come back--I thought for sure you were dead--" She rushed heedlessly forward toward the woman.

Naegnest took a hasty step back, then cautiously took Finduilas's hands in hers. "A few--a very few of us survived long enough to see daylight again."

Had these been prisoners of the Enemy, then? Gwindor's heart was soft for them, but at the same time there were communities throughout Beleriand that would have turned them away, and for good reason. The most mild, good-natured people came back irrevocably altered after too long in the Enemy's hands. Dangerously changed, and hard to trust.

At Orodreth's request, Naegnest told them the whole tale. How they had endured captivity under Tol Sirion's new master, watching their companions be killed one by one through torture or overwork or just to give the werewolves something to do. How Felagund arrived and fought valiantly and was captured and killed in turn. How a lady and a dog retook the isle at last.

And Celebrombor's gambit worked. The Feanorians were exposed and their hold on Nargothrond melted away like snow in spring. The people proclaimed Orodreth the new King of Nargothrond without him even having to ask--or indeed agree.

Finduilas took it a little amiss how often the Feanorians' disgrace was emphasized by describing Lúthien, the one who had done what they dared not, as 'a mere maiden'. But Gwindor had her permission to twist the proverbial knife in as far as it would go, even if that meant condoning some casual dismissal of her entire gender.

Curufin and Celegorm found their welcome increasingly cold. Finally, when those who had supported them mere days before began muttering about trading their lives for Felagund's, Orodreth had them brought before him.

"You have done reprehensible things in my name and in the name of Nargothrond," Orodreth proclaimed. "This kingdom is now mine to safeguard, and it cannot thrive with such evil in it. Therefore I banish you from it, never to return."

"This momentary display of backbone won't last long," Curufin sneered. "As soon as someone shows up willing to cosset you and give you orders, he will have your heart, and you will fall under his sway as easily as you did mine."

"And yet you will not be here to see it, nor reap the benefit. That is sufficient." Orodreth replied evenly. "You arrived at Nargothrond as vagabonds with almost nothing to your names, and some would  ask for even your lives to be forfeit. Yet I will not be so merciless as to deprive you of anything which is yours by right. Take it and be gone."

Celegorm gripped Huan's collar; Curufin laid a hand on the naked blade by his side. Gwindor tensed, but neither of them made a movement to attack. "If you would speak of debt for the fostering of your kin," Curufin said, "you may withhold of our goods whatever you deem just recompense. I require only one thing more from Nargothrond before I bid it good riddance: my son. Come, Celebrimbor." He turned and began to walk toward the door, Celegorm and Huan close behind him.

Gwindor hardly dared breathe. Would Curufin really take his son back after all he'd done to undermine his rule? 

Would Celebrimbor go?

rimbor stood silently to the side, not moving. Curufin had nearly reached the door before turning back around. "Well?" he demanded impatiently.

"No," Celebrimbor replied, almost too quietly to hear in the cavernous hall.

Curufin seemed too stunned to comprehend, at first. " _ What _ ?"

"I swore no oath. Yours will lead you to evil and ruin, and I--I wish to play no part in that any longer."

"You vile, treacherous--" Curufin's face roiled with fury; Celegorm merely looked wounded. "You would pledge yourself to the dregs of the house of Arfin? Very well. But do not be sure you can so easily shed the  _ ill reputation _ of you blood."

Celebrimbor said no more, and after a few moments his father and uncle left Nargothrond for good.

 


	11. Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwindor gets what he wants; Finduilas loses everything. This is it folks, this is when the tears start.

Chapter 11: Tears

 

Orodreth laughed, short and harsh. He tossed the message onto the table in front of him.

"They never cease in their audacity, do they? After everything they've done, now they would ask us to sacrifice our safety in their service." He shook his head. "Out of the question. There is no good in the House of Feanor, and no good will come of any endeavor they propose."

_ Present company excepted? _ Gwindor wondered. He glanced at Finduilas, who bit her lip. "Father…" she murmured and inclined her head toward Celebrimbor.

Celebrimbor waved a hand. "It's fine, I know what you mean. You didn't say anything that wasn't true." His expression seemed uncharacteristically stiff, though.

Orodreth took Celebrimbor's hand in his and squeezed it briefly. "No, I misspoke in haste. Your presence has been of great value to Nargothrond. So I can't quite say your family has produced  _ nothing _ worthwhile." He paused a long while before adding softly, "I suppose it's understandable if you still love them."

Celebrimbor sighed. "I...what I want doesn't exist. Maybe it never did, maybe we left it behind in Valinor. It hurts, sometimes, but I'm not willing to pay the cost it would take to pretend it's real."

"You'll always have family here," Finduilas told him.

As she spoke, Gwindor drew the letter closer to him, and pursed his lips as he reread Maedhros's proposal. For a while, after news of Luthien's victory over Sauron and greater victory over Morgoth had reached them, Nargothrond had been alive with hope and possibilities. People had openly entertained the idea of taking the fight to Morgoth once again. But before long they had fallen back into their old ways, jealously guarding their borders from the shadows of the trees. "It seems to me," he commented carefully, "their cause is at least a defensible one. A joint assault on Angband--its wisdom may be called into question, I suppose, but not its virtue. And the High King stands with them, after all."

He could feel the old desire to ride out, to do  _ something _ , welling up in him, but strove not to let it all out too quickly. It wasn't that he never opposed the king; he tried to give him good counsel, even when that meant pointing out where he had gone wrong. But Curufin's attempted coup had hurt him deeply, as had Felagund's death. He didn't know if the king could be reasoned with when Feanorians were involved.

"The High King is…" Orodreth grimaced but didn't finish the thought. "I'm sure his motives are exactly as virtuous as you say they are. And if they succeed it will be a great boon to all of us. But that doesn't mean Nargothrond needs to get involved. Maybe that will teach them to be more polite."

Gwindor clenched a fist in frustration. "If Thingol had proposed this alliance, would you go? Is it really only the sins of Maedhros's kinsmen that stands in your way?" If it is an excuse, he didn't say, it is a poor one. Did he have a better?

Orodreth's expression clouded. "I think that would be reason enough. My responsibility is to protect Nargothrond, and so far we have done quite well without exposing ourselves to such risky endeavors. Do you intend to stand by me in this, or not?"

Gwindor bowed his head. He hadn't intended to start a fight, but he was finding it difficult not to speak his mind. He looked to Finduilas. Her carefully neutral expression, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, said to him clearly,  _ We'll talk about this later. " _ Of course, your majesty," he said. "The preservation of Nargothrond will always be my highest concern." That was mostly true.

Orodreth nodded. "For all your life, you have been nothing but loyal to our house. I believe you have earned a measure of trust, and I do value your candor." He didn't look entirely satisfied.

"Celebrimbor," Finduilas said brightly after a widening silence, "you mentioned yesterday that you'd learned something from our Dwarven guests that excited you, but you never got to telling me what it was."

The two of them let the matter drop as Finduilas so obviously desired. Gwindor half listened to Celebrimbor tell them about new alloys and their various properties while old thoughts continued to churn in his head.

Later, when he and Finduilas found themselves alone, he wasted no time in telling her, "I'm sorry about earlier." Blunt honesty was never as important to him as her regard, and he hated to think his moment of passion har caused her grief.

"I meant absolutely no disrespect to the King, and I--" 

She touched her fingers to his lips. "I'm not angry," she said, and sounded sincere. "What's wrong, Gwindor?"

He frowned. "Nothing. At least--not with me." It was this whole situation that was wrong, wasn't it? Yet now that she'd named the agitation, he could feel it winding around his insides.

She raised his hand in hers and brushed her lips against it. "Fingon has great regard for you as a prince and as a warrior. He knows your fealty to my father has to come first, you can't worry he'll be disappointed in you if you don't come."

"That's not it, not exactly," he said, testing the truth of the words even as he spoke them. "When my father died, and Gelmir--" He swallowed, emotions rising almost faster than he could properly feel them. "I only got through it by telling myself that one day I would have the chance to avenge them. One day all our enemies would be defeated and all the captives set free. And maybe--" He clung to Finduilas's hands and took a few deep breaths before he could continue. "And instead, every year those chances seem to slip farther and farther away. Tol Sirion, and Beren, and Luthien. All needed my help. And every time I think I might be able to make a difference, it evaporates in my hands." He raised her hand to brush his lips against it. "Nargothrond must be kept safe. I don't deny that. But while the Enemy remains free, I fear we are only delaying the end."

She gently stroked his chest. "I think you're right, for what it's worth. This alliance seems a noble venture, and a necessary one. If it were my decision, I--I  _ would _ worry whether I was doing what was best for Nargothrond, but I would want to lend our strength to the cause. And you needn't worry that you've done right by your family either. Every day you've lived on is an honor to what they fought for."

He smiled a little at the image of Finduilas, Queen of Nargothrond. She'd be marvellous at it. "Thank you."

"I'll speak with my father. Maybe I will be able to talk him around to the idea."

 

* * *

 

Her father looked at her and sighed as soon as she entered his room. "You think he's right, don't you?" He smiled wanly and shook his head. "Our children must leave us eventually; I can hardly hold it against you that you'd take his side."

How could she convince him that this wasn't about sides? "I just want to make sure we've explored all our options. There has to be more choices available than either doing nothing, or committing all our forces and leaving Nargothrond totally defenseless."

He looked at her. "Do you think I'm being unreasonable? Should I just forget everything they did, put it aside for the greater good?"

"I think...you are perfectly justified in feeling that way? They hurt you badly and you owe them no goodwill. But I believe we're dealing with two separate questions. This isn't some personal project for Maedhros's own glory. This may be our best chance at ridding ourselves of the enemy for good, or at least establishing another siege and buying ourselves some peace."

"And what of Gwindor? How much is he thinking of these lofty goals and how much is his own personal feelings?"

So her father was a little more observant that she'd expected. "He--" She chose her words carefully. They'd all lost someone, and she didn't want to imply that one response was worthier than another. "He doesn't want to wait forever, and hide. He wants to be sure he's  _ doing _ something, even if it's not the wisest choice, rather than hesitate until our fate finds us anyway."

"It speaks well of him. I'll never doubt that you made a fine choice of suitors." His momentary smile dropped once again. "But we cannot deny that the sons of Feanor must face the consequences of their actions. This is not merely hunger for revenge. The need to fight the enemy cannot become a panacea for all bad behavior, or where does it end? And if by some miracle we do win, how do we live with them as neighbors afterward?"

Finduilas nodded. He made a decent argument, when she looked at it that way.

"And I am definitely not convinced it is in Nargothrond's best interest to send our whole army, even if we could win thereby. After all we've lost…" He stood and began to pace. "Others may reap the glory; I am willing to be called a coward who benefits from the valor of others, if it means I can say I protected what Finrod entrusted to me."

After a minute more of restless contemplation, he stopped and faced her; it appeared he'd made a decision. "You can tell Gwindor this: Officially, Nargothrond will send no force. Our standard will never be raised alongside the star of Feanor. But recent days have been untroubled and seem likely to remain so. If he wishes to take his leave for a few weeks this summer, he may have his choice of people and supplies, within reason, to do with whatever he wishes."

She reported all this to Gwindor, who seemed less overjoyed than he might have. "I didn't mean for this to be a personal favor to me," he said. "Regardless of how I feel, every soldier on the field is one more chance to break the Enemy's power entirely. I really do think we have a chance, if we are bold enough."

"So you'll go?"

"Yes. I don't think I could live with myself otherwise."

In the weeks preceding his departure, she showered Gwindor with affection at every opportunity, gathered his kisses and laid them up like winter stores. Some days she even idly entertained the idea of marrying him in secret before he left, just to have that unbreakable connection to him while he was away. She knew it was a foolish notion and never spoke of it, even to him. Still, she was less inclined than usual to be the one to speak up first when they were on the edge of getting carried away. By the morning he left, they'd learned several new and interesting things about each other's bodies, and she had plenty of memories to keep her company on lonely nights.

"Just promise me I'll see you again," she said as she walked beside Galithil, unwilling to say the last goodbye even as Gwindor rode away. "Promise you'll come back to me."

"Always, my love," he answered.

* * *

One step closer. Galithil had been cut down from beneath him back in the Anfauglith. His shield was broken, and probably the arm behind it as well. His sword arm was drenched in blood; he tightened his grip and pressed grimly forward. Slice off another head, sever another hand or foot. One step closer to Angband.

Aiwinel lay dead to his right, Ringlin to his left, as he climbed the steps leading up to the great iron doors. He threw his body into them with all the strength he had left, but they remained immovable. "Gelmir," he muttered.  _ I'm coming, brother. I'm here. _

No.  _ No _ . Too late.  _ Too late _ .

Keep going anyway.

But for every orc he dropped, two more followed behind. His swings grew weaker--at least some of that blood must have been his own. The horde moved in to surround him.

He couldn't fall here. He'd promised. He'd promised he would return. Doubt seized him. He should never have come this far. He turned and spied the gates of the courtyard, still open, but then his vision wavered and darkened for a moment.

He lunged for them, regardless. Skewered one orc, kicked another--stumbled-- but he'd opened the way for his retreat and forced himself through. If they weren't too tenacious he might still be able to outrun them, once he got back out on the open plain.

He heard the blow and his right leg crumpled beneath him seconds before the pain flooded him, washing out every other ache and sting he had accumulated previously. He tried to push himself up but a heavy weight on his back forced him down. Rough voices exchanged words in the orcs' tongue above him. He lay on the black flagstones for several seconds before it occurred to him to be surprised he had not yet been killed.

For the first time that day, he felt deep, gut-twisting fear. He'd made a mistake. If you couldn't retreat, you needed to make them kill you. You didn't ever want to let them take you alive.

The pressure on his back let up just as he began to find it hard to breath. Something lifted his feet and started dragging him across the courtyard, away from the gates, toward Angband itself. 

He twisted and struggled to get free. Pain shot through his leg with every movement; he did his best to ignore it. But he had no success and the grip on his feet only tightened. Then a steel-toed boot kicked him hard in the ribs, leaving him able to do nothing but gasp for air.

 

* * *

 

Finduilas was well practiced by now in keeping herself busy and not wearing herself out worrying. She had evidence by now, didn't she, that all these fears were silly? Of course he would come home. He always did. He'd promised.

By midsummer's day, she'd even found time to organize a bit of festivity for the holiday--not quite the way they used to in Minas Tirith but she thought her mother would still have approved. 

She took a moderate amount of comfort in a letter from Brithombar relating that, though a sizeable force of Falathrim had been sent to fight at Fingon's side, Cirdan had declined to allow Rodnor to accompany them. Her brother had just passed his fiftieth birthday and was frustrated at missing this chance to test his skill against real enemies in real battle.

 But Cirdan had agreed to protect him and took that promise seriously, and judged it not yet time for him to face that danger.

However, her uneasiness grew with every day that she went to bed having heard no news from the North. Surely if things had gone well, or even if the armies required aid, messengers would have been sent. If things had gone very badly, they might see a retreat in this direction. But  _ nothing… _ She didn't know what to think, and she had to discipline her thoughts lest her mind continuously conjure up one awful scenario after another. This suspense couldn't last forever; she reassured herself that before long it would all be in the past, and she and Gwindor would laugh about it together.

It was nearly Iavas before the first inkling of news came. Their scouts reported sighting a moderately large group cutting across the kingdom's northern border travelling southwest as swiftly as their injured could travel. On her father's orders, and to her mild displeasure, they were encouraged by sentries with bows in hand to continue on their way without delay. The dearth of information had done nothing to convince him that danger was not close at hand, and he was loath to take any risk of inviting trouble into his realm. However, he did allow two carefully chosen representatives to enter the caverns and speak before him of what they knew.

Finduilas recognized them as soon as she saw them: Nimthon and Duinir were both well respected elves of her mother's people.  Nimthon bore bruises and cuts that said she had seen battle recently, and both of them had obviously been travelling desperately hard. Finduilas greeted them warmly and tried to quell the twisting in her stomach as she prepared to hear what they had to say.

Their very presence, so far home, was unsettling enough. Hithlum, they reported, was completely overrun by the Enemy, and the mountains that had protected their clan for centuries were no longer safe. Those who had escaped had decided to flee south, hoping to find refuge with Cirdan's folk in the Falas. Nothing remained of the fortresses that had besieged Angband for so long, or those that had defended them.

"It was a slaughter," Nimthon told them bluntly. "Everything that could go wrong, did. We'd given the Enemy too long to prepare. Our reinforcements from the east didn't arrive. Then that young idiot from Nargothrond led his company out early, against orders." She smiled grimly. "With all due respect, your majesty."

Finduilas's stomach jolted like she'd taken a misstep straight off the edge of a cliff. "It was his own brother!" Duinir exclaimed before she could say anything. "You're telling me if it were Gaeril out there you wouldn't have done the same?"

"They only did it to make them react," Nimthon retorted. "It was their duty to--"

"Excuse me!" Finduilas interrupted, no longer able to restrain herself. "The commander we sent, Gwindor son of Guilin. Is that who you speak of?"

"Yes I believe that was his name."

"And his brother, Gelmir, you saw him, he's--alive?"

They glanced at each other. "Well, not  _ anymore… _ " Nimthon said.

No. Oh, no. "And--?" was all she could force out.

Nimthon's eyes were full of pity. "They all went racing across the blasted plain, straight on toward Angband. None of them came back the other way."

She could hear the blood roaring in her ears. Everything was floating. She was in freefall. "But--did they--do you know--no one actually said they saw-- a body?" she choked.

"Milady, by the end of that cursed day there was a mountain of bodies, and Mandos only knows who they all belonged to."

Was she still breathing? She was gasping for air--she was suffocating. Her father's arms wrapped around her, she felt the rumble of his chest as words were said that she didn't comprehend.

He wasn't coming back.

He wasn't coming back.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


She let herself be guided away. Eventually she was lying in her bed, her father gently stroking the back of her neck and murmuring soothing sounds. Lucid thoughts seemed futile. How could anything continue to happen, how could any future possibly  _ exist _ when--when--

But time did continue to flow, and things did not cease happening. By morning she let her father coax her into forcing down a bit of food. By the end of the week she'd bathed and changed her clothes at least once. Whenever she left her room, Celebrimbor was there to keep her company. Nothing was worth doing but she did it anyway, if only to please those around her.

Her father was nothing but sympathetic but she somehow heard his reproach anyway. Was he right in staying out of what turned out to be a massacre? Or would things have gone differently if Gwindor had had more support? Should she have done more to convince him?

She found walking into Gwindor's office easier than she expected. Nothing she hadn't done a thousand times before. The ledgers lay open on his desk, neglected during his preparations for battle; she'd dragged him away and refused to let him stay up finishing them the night before he left. She sat there and stared at it until it was almost simpler to balance the accounts than to leave them there undone. In putting the book away, she noticed a half-completed report on the status of the crops that had been planted this year. The harvest would need to be coordinated; people still needed to eat. She worked her way through it all, in the following days, allowing an hour or two at a time to cry when she happened across a stray couplet of poetry or a handkerchief soaked with the smell of her own perfume. She told herself that she would be allowed to fall completely apart once Firith arrived.

The work itself was uncomplicated: no hard decisions, just task after task that she had years of practice at by now. And when all was neatly accomplished, as the season faded, she discovered that it was in fact quite possible to go on walking around with one's chest ripped open and one's heart missing. Well, her father had proven it many years before, hadn't he and she was so proud of him for it and so grateful she had him to rely on.

Her world was not the only one that had ended. Though he had fought valiantly to the end, High King Fingon had also been lost to the Noldor. His brother Turgon would presumably succeeded him as the ruler of whatever Noldor still remained, though he had vanished back into his secret refuge as soon as the battle had been decidedly lost. Finarfin's sons were all dead, and Galadriel had travelled far to the east and rarely sent word back.

Her father had certainly realized it if she had, though neither of them spoke of it aloud.  _ Her father _ had somehow ended up next in line for the High Kingship. If something should happen to him,  _ Rodnor _ could very well end up inheriting the title. Perhaps the Noldor truly were cursed.

Keeping company and giving aid to those just as stricken as she--didn't make it easier exactly, but gave her something to do. She got into the habit of taking her meals with Gwindor's mother, Lady Banloth. Then she got into the habit of delivering those meals to her rooms, once Lady Banloth stopped leaving it.

She arrived one morning with a late breakfast. The Lady didn't appear to have moved from her bed, and the plate of dinner she'd brought by the night before had barely been touched.

And yet a canvas she hadn't seen before sat on an easel at the far end of the room. A wild smattering of colors resolved itself, when she tilted her head, into--maybe some sort of bird?

"The first gift my Guilin ever gave me," Banloth said from the bed, "was a whole dead pheasant. Anonymously. Tradition, you know. I carried it all around the camp trying to figure out who was responsible for the thing, and meanwhile all the Sindarin ladies were congratulating me on my catch. I tried to tell them I hadn't been the one to snare it, and they laughed and said what I'd caught was a good hunter's eye.

"And the funniest thing is, that wasn't even true. He told me later it had taken him two weeks to get one small bird, and then asked if I would still respect him if all the rest of his gifts were poems."

Findulas blinked back tears and sat beside her on the bed. "They can be pretty effective, can't they."

Lady Banloth put a hand on hers and sighed. "I still can't quite say I regret coming. I saw the lands wild and free, and they were more awesome than I could have imagined. I gained two beautiful children. I certainly don't begrudge them their short lives.

"But they did warn us. We have suffered just as much as they said we would, and caused those we love to suffer worse. I don't think I can stay much longer."

Finduilas gripped Banloth's hand and shook her head, but couldn't find the words to gainsay her. She had tried to do everything that Gwindor would not want left undone--how could she fail him here?

Banloth smiled thinly. "I think my boys will need their mother."

Was that true? Did she even have a right to beg her to stay?

She didn't give up, nonetheless. Brought Banloth meals twice a day, acted as pleased as she could whenever the poor woman found the energy to get out of bed, or sketch out a rough drawing, or even hold a brief conversation.

And on a nippy winter morning, she arrived to discover that only Banloth's body remained in Nargothrond.

Finduilas sometimes felt like she was gripping onto them with bloody fingernails, but she still found reasons to remain.

  
  



	12. Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get really bad for Gwindor. Finduilas has a moment of reprieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things start getting really terrible; I adjust the tags for content every chapter so keep an eye on them.

Gwindor surfaced from a haze of pain in a dark, cramped cell. It was a crude box of rough stone, the ceiling not high enough to stand up straight, the floor crusted with the smeared remains of its former occupants. His armor was gone. His  _ ring _ was gone--he recalled fighting them over that, and was now missing a good bit of skin from his finger.

He could not see any means to end his life. He found himself cravenly reluctant to scour his brain for some spark of ingenuity that would suggest one, though. He'd like to think he was strong willed enough to resist should they ply him for information. But he suspected he had simply become afraid to die. Not like this. While he lived, while an ocean and a Vala's halls did not lay between him and his beloved, he had hope.

The stone walls must be very thick, but he thought he could hear movement on one side of him, and singing somewhere far off. "Can anyone hear me?" he said as loudly as he dared, but no one answered.

He could not track the passage of time except by the growing needs of his own body. He drifted into a dozy half-awareness for lack of anything else to do.

When a door squealed open to admit a dim, flickering light, he instantly rolled into a crouch, instinctively preparing for a fight. His right leg still ached, but he heeded it only insofar as he needed to know how much he could trust it. An Orc poked its nasty face in and barked something in its own tongue, then "Out," in Sindarin, brandishing a coiled whip.

Dared he resist now? Dared he comply? He had no idea what waited for him out there. He'd endured no worse than discomfort yet. Perhaps he should wait for more information, a better opportunity. His pride recoiled at meekly following the thing's orders, but he raised his hands, straightened up as far as he could, and walked forward.

As soon as he was within reach, the Orc seized him by the arm and pulled him roughly through the doorway. He staggered into a corridor lit only by the occasional torch along one wall. Another couple of Orcs and several Elvish prisoners stood in a group just to one side; he was prodded to join them. 

The Orcs conversed for a few moments. He had endured years of Captain Nerseth advising him to learn their speech, for intelligence gathering purposes, but he'd found it tedious and distasteful and never put too much effort into it. If he ever made it back to Nargothrond he'd have to tell her she was right after all.

The Orcs concluded their consultation by pulling about a quarter of the elves aside, Gwindor included, and binding their hands behind them with thick, rough rope. The group was led along twisting passages to a larger open chamber. Gwindor comitted the layout of the place to memory the best he could but still did not physically resist.

The prisoners were made to kneel in a line abreast. Each in turn was doused in a cold, acrid-smelling liquid that stung Gwindor's eyes and nose and everywhere his skin was still broken. With no thought to decency, he was grabbed by his hair and pitched forward suddenly as all but a few inches was cut off. He heard various yelps of pain from down the line, turned his head as far as he thought might be allowed, but couldn't quite grasp what was going on. A few more words of Orcish were exchanged, then he felt two searing flashes of pain. Something hit the ground--oh Eru, was that part of his ear? Blood began to trickle down the back of his neck as they moved on to the Elf next to him. His stomach heaved and bile rose in the back of his throat.

When they'd finished mutilating all their prisoners, groups of them were herded in various directions. Gwindor was escorted alone down a path that got deeper and warmer as they walked. When they reached a closely-woven iron grate, his escort selected a key from a ring on its belt, unlocked a heavy lock, and swung the grate open.

He'd gotten to see a bit of the place, though he had no idea where an exit might be. A lock would be a definite impediment to any escape. Was now the time to run?

Too late. The Orc shoved him through. He stumbled down a trio of rough steps cut into the stone. With his hands still bound, he barely managed to land on his knees instead of his face.

Someone grabbed him under one shoulder and pulled him to his feet. They shouted something in Orcish, though the voice did not sound rough enough to be an Orc's. Gwindor looked up. It was an Elf, mixed Sinda and Noldo from what he could see in the dim light. A thick web of scars twisted across the whole right side of his face, and he seemed to be missing the eye on that side as well.

The Orc grunted something, then trudged into the room and cut Gwindor's bonds with one swift knife stroke. The scarred Elf muttered something in response, and the Orc turned and left, clanging the door closed and locking it before departing.

"Welcome to Half-left Gang. I'm generally called Gorthir around here." The harsh name didn't seem to bother him; he smiled slightly though he looked quite weary.

"Gwindor," he responded.

Gorthir took him by the chin and examined his face from a couple of different angles with his good eye. "Huh," he said at last. "Injuries?"

Gwindor took stock of the state of his body. His leg had nearly full mobility and seemed no worse than bruised. His shield arm was still tender, but if it was broken it was only a crack.

His ear was still sensitive to touch but was already starting to scab over. They'd cut half of it off and notched it further down. He noticed that Gorthir had a matching injury--actually as he looked around, all the elves in the room did. About fifty people sat or lay on the floor in a space barely large enough to contain them all: mostly Elves, though he thought he spotted a few Men here and there.

"'s how they keep track of us," Gorthir supplied. "Nothing too bad otherwise?"

"No."

"Shame. They might have given you a day or two if you were near death. As it is they'll probably have you down in the mines with us tomorrow."

"That's what it's to be then? Forced labor?" He didn't want to get his hopes up, but he was starting to think it could have been worse.

"For now, if they threw you in here. But you never know when something might feel a need for--information, a plaything, target practice  So do your best not to attract attention. First piece of advice."

"Thank you," Gwindor answered a little hesitantly.

"Come here. Sit with me. Second piece of advice, neve miss an opportunity to rest, you don't get many."

Gorthir took a couple of steps to a relatively clear patch of ground and collapsed awkwardly onto it with a groan. Gwindor joined him more gingerly. A few heads turned momentarily to look at him with tired gazes, but most paid him no mind.

"You understand any of the Orc speech?"

Gwindor shook his head. "Maybe a few words from when my commander tried to drum it into me. Wishing I'd learned better, now."

"Okay, the six words it is most important to know:  _ Taghat _ \--come here,  _ krishat _ \--stop,  _ ibazatnum _ \--give me that,  _ wi dorba _ \--yes master,  _ ghurral _ \--faster,  _ snaga _ \--slave. You'll pick the rest up if you live long enough. The guards won't speak to you in Sindarin and you'll be punished if you try to answer back in it, but most of them understand at least some so don't assume they're not listening."

"All right."

Gorthir curled up on the floor in a way that couldn't possibly be comfortable. "Try to get some sleep."

Gwindor imitated him. He had no idea how long it had been since he'd really slept last, and he lay on the hard stone in the dim light listening to the shifting and breathing crowd until it faded into dream.

He woke to the sound of their door opening. By the time a Sinda woman walked down the stone steps he could already hear it being locked behind her. Her ear was marked the same way as the rest of them, though it seemed long healed. Her hair had not been cut quite as short and she looked not quite so painfully thin as everyone else, and she was dressed much more finely.

Gorthir leapt to his feet, hurried across the room and pulled her into a tight embrace. After a few seconds he pulled back and asked softly, "How are you doing?"

" _ I'm okay _ ." Instead of answering with her voice, she used the hand-signed version of Sindarin, with which Gwindor had passable fluency. " _ They wanted to put me in a room alone. As  _ \--" he didn't know that word. _ "I asked to come here instead _ ."

"You could have gone. I wouldn't mind." He gently stroked her cheekbone.

_ "I missed you. And I feel safer here _ .  _ Is he new?" _ Gwindor startled as he realized she was looking straight at him.

Gorthir turned in his direction. "Yeah, that is--uh, that is Gwindor."

Her eyebrows shot up. " _ Is he-- _ " another unfamiliar word or two.

Gorthir twitched as if he were about to shake his head, then shrugged.

" _ Did you ask him?" _

"No, I did not ask him," Gorthir grumbled.

She rolled her eyes expressively, strode over, and squatted in front of Gwindor. She swallowed a couple of times before croaking hoarsely, "Are--you--"

"Stop, Ithillin, you'll hurt yourself. I'll do it," Gorthir lay a hand on her shoulder and sighed. "She wants to know if you're Gelmir's brother."

Oh. "Did you know him?" Gwindor whispered. "Did he--speak of me?" And after a moment. "I do understand sign fairly well, if you can't speak."

" _He was one of us_. _He was always talking about his little brother Gwindor._ _They took him away a few weeks ago_ ," said Ithillin. " _I don't know what happened but we usually don't get them back after that long. I'm sorry._ "

"He's--they killed him. I saw--"

Gorthir and Ithillin exchanged a glance.  "Was it quick?" Gorthir asked.

"No," Gwindor choked.

Ithillin lay her head on Gorthir's shoulder and squeezed his hand.

"Mandos keep him," Gorthir whispered.

Gwindor felt like he must have dozed for an hour or two after that, but before long the door squealed open again and people began shifting around him. An Orc bearing a large iron kettle bellowed words he still didn't understand. 

Ithillin passed him a dipper of faintly rancid smelling gruel. He had no illusions that there was anything better to be had, so he swallowed it down the best he could.

A brief discussion ensued between Gorthir, the Orc, and one or two of the other prisoners. Eventually all but a few of their number were shackled together with chains long enough to let them work but short enough to impede them should they try to flee. They were led farther into the depths of Arda.

Tools were distributed. Gwindor couldn't help evaluating the sharp iron pick for the damage he could do with it, however unlikely it was he would get the chance. 

Gorthir gave him a quick overview of the ores they were tasked with mining and how they could be identified, as well as the  most common dangers, besides their overseers, that they were likely to encounter. Gwindor took his cues from his fellow prisoners and got to work.

Several hours in, Gwindor noticed he was making much faster progress than those around him. Perhaps he did not yet understand exactly how fast he needed to work in order to escape the Orcs' ire; perhaps being freshly caught he still retained a greater stamina than the others. They didn't seem to mind so hopefully he was doing them some good.

Hours longer after that, even Gwindor was beginning to tire, and those around him were seriously flagging. The guards began to sound more and more impatient as their prisoners slowed.

The Elf next to him leaned her pick against the rocky wall and examined what appeared to be some nasty blisters on her hand. She ran a thumb over them, then seemed to search for something she could wrap her hand with. Her clothes were in tatters already. Gwindor kept working, but considered whether he could help her at all. 

She jumped as an Orc barked something at her. She turned and bowed and said something that sounded pleading, holding up her hand.

The Orc's whip flashed out with a crack and left a livid red welt in its wake on the Elf's shoulder. She yelped, and her breathing became ragged. He thought he might have seen tears beginning to fill her eyes.

Gwindor gritted his teeth, trained his eyes back on his work, and pushed down the urge to leap to her aid. He knew he could expect to see as much and worse in the pits of the Enemy. To the rest it must be commonplace, for they did not even look in her direction.

The Elf muttered something that sounded like "Elbereth give me strength."

Whether it understood her or not, that seemed to provoke the Orc further. The whip struck again, this time opening a cut across her cheek. Gwindor would have admired the skill and precision that took, under other circumstances. 

If anything, those nearby seemed to carefully avoid attracting any of the infuriated guard's attention to themselves.He could not really blame them, after all they'd been through, for not being moved as he was. He was sure that in another life they may have been just as valiant as he.

The Orc still was not satisfied. It wrapped its whip back around its knuckles, grabbed the Elf by her close-cropped hair, and dragged her face to within inches of its own. She hissed in pain. It shook her violently and growled something.

He couldn't do this. He was not in his soul capable of letting this abuse occur right next to him and doing nothing. He dropped his pick and interposed himself between the two of them, movement hindered only slightly by his shackled legs. A quick strike broke the Orc's grip on its victim. Gwindor knew even as he acted that this was a bad idea but now that he'd started the only way out seemed to be forward. He'd fought thousands of Orcs before, didn't even need to think, just let his instincts take over.

The Orc seemed surprised at first, but once Gwindor had made his intentions clear, it responded with unchecked ferocity. The hindrance of the shackles , and within a few seconds Gwindor found himself on his back with the Orc's boot digging into his neck. It rumbled something ending in  _ snaga _ , and raised its whip.

"I swear, Lûkhnazg, it's his first day, you can't give him a break for  _ one day _ ?" he could hear Gorthir muttering as he approached from one side, though he dared not turn his head toward the sound. When Gwindor could see his legs just out of the corner of his eye Gorthir switched to rapid, placating Orcish. The pressure on Gwindor's neck eased eventually, though he remained motionless until Gorthir offered him a hand up. "I talked him down to six lashes." he murmured. " _ Please _ do not do anything that stupid again today."

The Orc unshackled Gwindor--and Gorthir for some reason-- and dragged him off a few dozen paces down a side tunnel as Gorthir followed behind them. Gwindor didn't need to understand the word the Orc barked to comply when he was shoved to his knees.

He was not unfamiliar with pain, but there was something uniquely agonizing about having to force himself to remain still and endure it, rather than find any way to make it stop. He didn't know whether it would be better or worse to cry out, but by the fifth and sixth he did. Gorthir stood by and watched impassively, and gave him a silent hand up once more when he was finished.

The Orc escorted him back and chained him again to the line of prisoners, leaving Gorthir behind, then returned the way it had come. Gwindor dared not imagine what Gorthir had offered it for his sake.

He returned to his work and did his best not to think about it.  He did vow to be more careful, not to put anyone else in a position of having to suffer for his sake.

Gorthir appeared not too long after, in the guard's custody, seemingly uninjured. "You doing all right?" he asked, placing a careful hand on an unbroken place on Gwindor's shoulder. 

Gwindor nodded. He'd survive, now that the ordeal was over.

"Are you going to slow down now, though?" he continued as his own shackles were replaced. "If they want you to hurry up I guarantee you they will let you know.  _ Ghurral _ , remember?"

"Right. Thank you." He thought to look over and see if the Elf he'd tried to save had come through all of this all right. She chipped away at the stone as if nothing had happened, though the welt on her shoulder rippled with every stroke, and he thought he spied a smear of blood on the handle of her pick.

"And don't let Meuliel fool you," Gorthir added. "She's got crying at the first sign of trouble down to an art."

"It's true," she confirmed without turning around.

"To what, play on their sympathy?" Gwindor wondered. "I didn't think they had any."

"Some of them like to see you react, and won't let up until you do." said Gorthir. "Sometimes it's best to get it out of the way quick. Of course some of us find our pride is precious to us when we haven't anything else but," he shrugged, "to each their own."

Gwindor wondered which kind he would end up becoming.

 

* * *

To his credit, Finduilas's father at least considered taking action when an Orc army skirted Nargothrond's borders heading straight for Brithombar. Even his all-consuming devotion to his kingdom's safety was not immune to the knowledge that his own son could be in danger.

In the end, his decision was to triple the guard at the border and send a small squad of scouts to follow the Orcs and report back on their movements. A few brief skirmishes and endless harassment from the shadows of the trees were enough to convince the Orcs that Nargothrond was still too well guarded to be a worthwhile target, They continued making their way south, trailed by silent feet and unseen eyes.

Finduilas found herself bereft of what little stamina she'd regained. Losing the ones she loved did not appear to be the kind of thing that got easier with practice. What needed to be done, she accomplished somehow, but the hours in between she spent lying in bed. One hollowed out cavern was much the same as the next, after all.

The days dragged on, but she couldn't make herself count them. She refused to admit there might be a number of them after which it had to be assumed no word would come. She didn't have hope, exactly. She just existed, and hid from despair like a frightened rabbit.

"Finduilas? Your father is asking for you," Celebrimbor told her one day as she stared at nothing in one of the large public chambers for a change.

"Did he say what about?" she asked even as she rose mechanically to obey the summons.

"I think I can guess. I heard the scouts from Brithombar are on their way back."

"Oh." Jagged shards of emotion threatened to disrupt her facade. She took a deep breath to wash them away. Anticipation was of no use; she could delay the pain until the actual blow landed.

"He's in his study." He lay a warm hand on her shoulder. "Take care."

She passed Nerseth in the corridor, who nodded at her in greeting. She was several steps past before the realization caught up with her. Nerseth had been leading the scouts, hadn't she? By the time she thought to turn back and beg for information, it was easier to just keep going. She could no longer keep the anxiety from filling her up, and it pushed her on forward.

She didn't recognize him from behind at first, when she entered the room. Only saw her father embracing a golden-haired someone, and weeping profusely.  But before she fully realized who it must be she was already laughing helplessly.

He turned and caught her up in one arm "Finduilas!"

"Rodnor--" she wheezed, as she threw her arms around him and squeezed. "You're not allowed to be this tall," she muttered into his chest. He'd surpassed even their father by a bit.

They finally disentangled themselves enough to sit and listen to Rodnor describe the destruction of the land that had been his home for almost twenty years. Finduilas ached inside to think of him fleeing another home, though at least this time he was able to defend himself and others along the way.

"Nerseth and her people were invaluable," he told them. "I know they had strict orders not to get involved, but every one of them saved at least a dozen people's lives. I'd very much appreciate it if they received more honor than punishment for that."

Their father pulled him close once more. "Of course, my son, of course." He shook his head wearily. "I suppose it was foolish of me to think I could send you away to keep you safe. There is nowhere, perhaps not even Doriath, where the Enemy's evil cannot reach eventually. But that being so, might you remain here with us until the end comes?"

She knew what he would say as soon as he had to pause and think of how to say it. "I can't. I'm so sorry. I love you both, I do. But the Falathrim--they just lost everything, and they still need me."

"Cirdan brought you up well. Loyal and brave and everything a prince should be."

"What can we do to help them?" Finduilas asked. They spent some time discussing what Nargothrond could spare for the survivors. In the past year they'd pulled people in from all but the nearest farms, for safety's sake. On the other hand, they'd learned from the Dwarves all manner of ways to grow food underground, and had plenty they could share.

Rodnor had one last piece of news for them before he retired for a well-earned rest. "You should also know--just before we set out, Cirdan received messengers from the High King. He knows we can only hold out for so much longer. He wants to try absolutely everything we can before that happens." Rodnor took a deep breath. "He--he's going to send an envoy to the West."

"To Valinor? Do you think--?" The words caught in her throat. She'd been taught from a young age the dreadful words with which the Noldor had been cursed. Would anyone of any blood who sailed West at Turgon's bidding be allowed to succeed? "Have they any chance?"

Rodnor shrugged. "Cirdan is making fast, well-built ships especially for the task, and I'd already heard no shortage of fine sailors volunteering to crew them. The King sent some of his best people to bear the message, too. We'll give them every chance we can. If Eru wills it…"

If anything powerful enough to stand against Morgoth took pity on them at last. 

They ran into Celebrimbor on their way out. She couldn't fault him too much for lurking; she felt very well cared for.

"No, no, don't tell me, I know we've met." Rodnor warded her off before she could introduce him. "Celebrimbor, yes?" he said after a few moments thought.

"Yes, that's right. I'll spare you the shocked realization that children are subject to the passage of time that I'm sure you've gotten from everyone else. It's good to see you again."

"Likewise." Rodnor seemed to have gone uncharacteristically bashful, his eyes darting everywhere but Celebrimbor's. "Have you found Nargothrond to your liking?"

He and Celebrimbor spent the next several minutes discussing the ways Celebrimbor had kept himself occupied over the years. "And what about you? I hope your welcome home has been all you wished?"

"Oh, quite. Living underground might have taken some getting used to, if I meant to stay, but the people have been nothing but friendly." He took a deep breath. "Up until now I've, ah, mostly had woodworkers and shipwrights to brighten the scenery." He tossed his head just enough to jostle his hair. "But it's nice to see that smithwork can also produce some--some very fine physiques."

That seemed an odd thing to say. Finduilas couldn't quite follow what her brother was trying to take the conversation, at first. But as his eyes traced with relish the full length of Celebrimbor's body, she could not will herself into blessed ignorance any longer.

Well, she had to admit he was technically of marrying age. And she wouldn't be so cruel as to interfere with...with whatever he felt comfortable doing. 

"I've heard you've become quite handy with a spear yourself," Celebrimbor answered with raised eyebrows.

On the other hand, she could not believe Celebrimbor was encouraging him. She glared at him but still kept her thoughts to herself.

"Oh, well--yes. That's not so much a matter of strength though. It's all in the  _ technique _ ." Rodnor grinned back.

She couldn't do this. Maybe she would get used to it eventually, but right now she did not have the strength. "Celebrimbor, he's been traveling all day. We really ought to let him get to bed."

The two of them looked at each other, then they both burst out laughing. "Yes, sister," Rodnor drawled with exaggerated deference. "I'll go. Alone even. Alas, even my stamina has its limits." With one last smirk he sauntered away down the corridor.

"How old is your brother again?" Celebrimbor asked too innocently.

Finduilas slapped his arm. "Too young! Honestly!  _ You _ are older than his father, don't forget."

"I'm only letting him cut his teeth on me, don't worry. He is on his way to becoming a fair beauty, though, no doubt about it," he mused. "And age wouldn't matter so much after a few centuries."

"Then after a few centuries you have my permission to raise the subject again."


	13. Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwindor learns more about how life works in the mines of Angband, and struggles to recognize the person he is becoming. Finduilas learns more about how life works in a world torn by war, and fights to maintain her principles when not even her father supports her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is now officially novel-length! And there's still more to go!
> 
> As you may be able to tell, Gwindor and Finduilas have become uncoupled in time; the events of the previous and this chapter are not happening with anything like simultaneity, although Finduilas's section may at least be recognizable in its relation to canon events.

Ithillin worked along with the rest of the gang for three shifts, and then Gwindor woke to discover she was no longer there.

"Our Dread Master," Gorthir explained, when Gwindor must have looked like he was wondering where she was, "has, for all the trouble it caused him recently, developed a taste for fair Elvish singing. He'll have her chained to his throne for hours--days, if such a thing existed down here--until she's exhausted and cannot physically force out another note. Give her a few days to recover and start it all over again. It's why she doesn't speak when she's here. As long as she takes to recover, he's just tormenting some other poor soul."

"She'll come back here often, then?"

"Yeah, she was one of us long before they discovered her other talent. She says they keep offering her better accommodations, as some sort of reward, but I don't blame her for turning them down. It's not like they can't do whatever they want to any of us but...I don't know. Out of sight, out of mind, maybe. If she's around, someone might start getting  _ ideas _ .  I'm afraid one day they're going to insist."

Gwindor recognized that sort of desperate protectiveness. Gorthir cared for her, over and above his attempts to look after the rest of the gang. As a sister, a friend, a wife, it wasn't quite clear what, but she was dear to him. He above all others in this hellish place somehow managed to act almost cheerful at times, but he became noticeably subdued when she was away.

Time mounted on itself in an indistinguishable morass. Cut off from the sky, Gwindor could no longer speak truthfully of 'day' or 'night'. He worked, and he slept. He attempted to get to know his fellow prisoners, but they mostly answered him in sluggish monosyllables, if at all. 

It did not take him long to understand why. Too much work and too little food and sleep soon drove him into what he had to assume would be an unending state of exhaustion. He watched himself become as thin and wasted as those around him, and no longer worked any harder or faster than he had to. 

Gwindor let himself become well trained in how to bow, how to obey, how to shrink until he was no longer worth punishing. He learned to appreciate the scant comfort of sleeping in a huddled pile when there was not another scrap of warmth or softness to be had. Having wants, other than doing what was told and filling his quotas, was dangerous. Before long even having thoughts seemed futile much of the time. The only thing that brought him any happiness was imagining his Faelivrin, safe and well; his only desire was to live long enough to somehow return to her.

An Elf called Nimfang (though he showed no hint of a beard) found his solace in counting every work shift and every sleep in piles of pebbles and tiny scratches on the walls and floor in a corner of their cave. He'd recorded over twelve thousand such cycles since he'd arrived and claimed not to have omitted a single one. He seemed to take pride in how long he'd survived. He'd also attempted to counted off the length of both their 'days' and their 'nights' numerous times, and estimated that together they lasted somewhat longer than the time between sunsets in the world above, though he admitted he could not be sure. When he opined that Gwindor had likely been a prisoner for ten years, Gwindor could only feel vaguely surprised it had been that long.

"Gwindor, you want to sit by the door and make sure no one's there?" Gorthir asked him one time when everyone was crowded together getting ready to sleep. Gwindor nodded and took a seat on the steps, body angled so he could see out and also keep an ear on what Gorthir had to say. It didn't often happen that someone had something to say that they specifically wanted to keep their overlords from hearing, and Gwindor found himself mildly interested.

Gorthir waded into the mass of bodies on the floor and squatted down in the middle of them. "Hey, everyone," he said softly. "Sabarion says the northeast tunnel is almost done," he nearly whispered. This got a few murmurs of interest and more people's attention than he expected. They'd abandoned played out tunnels before. The Orcs often set them their quotas and let them choose how to fulfill it themselves, if they were well-behaved otherwise. He continued to listen.

"I think I can plausibly send eight or nine people without it looking too suspicious. Our hardy Men of course--" Gorthir gestured in their direction. Mortals rarely lasted long in the mines, their brief lives cut even shorter by the brutal hardship. But they had three with them at the time, and they were being invited to participate in whatever scheme Gorthir was concocting.

The Men looked at one another and nodded. Gorthir named several others, many of whom Gwindor recognized as those who had suffered the longest as prisoners of Morgoth. "It shouldn't take you more than a couple of hours to break through the rest of the way. Now, the rest of what I can tell you I obviously have no personal experience with, but the way through is apparently marked with this sign." He sketched something on the dusty ground. "You should end up just north of the east side of the pine highlands. Can't say how safe it is these days but at least you'll have a chance."

An emotion stronger than he'd felt in a long while gripped Gwindor's soul. Was he talking about  _ escape _ ? Gwindor had tried to hang on to a vague hope of such a thing, one far off day, but this was real, this was going to happen. He tried not to forget his duty of vigilance, but he leaned in to not miss a word of what was being said.

"Gaeloth, is everything ready to collapse the tunnel behind them?" Gorthir asked.

Another Elf nodded. "There's a spot of loose rock on the righthand side about halfway in. Shouldn't take much more than a tap, and the whole thing will cave in." She frowned. "I wouldn't count on there being much of a delay, though."

Gorthir nodded. "So we'll have one more getting out, ah, the other way. Volunteers?"

To Gwindor's surprise, but only somewhat, he got two almost immediately.

"Well, you two can coordinate, do it together, or fight each other for the privilege," Gorthir told them.

"I suppose if it'll get done either way I'll stay a little longer," one sighed.

"Fantastic. Seregolodh, thank you so much. I'll pray that Mandos appreciates your sacrifice." The other Elf nodded gravely. "Everyone else, you who are going out, make sure you're first in line when we're chained up--"

Gwindor caught the tap of footsteps growing louder down the corridor. "Gorthir--" he warned.

All voices ceased. The gate swung open long enough to admit Ithillin and clanged shut behind her. Her hair was matted with something dark and her face heavily abraded down one side, but her gaze was even and her expression neutral as she limped down the steps and into the cavern. " _ What did I miss?" _ she signed, her right hand stiff and weak.

Gorthir rushed to her side and helped her sit down in a clear space next to him. He checked that the guard had left before answering her quietly. "Nearly got the northeast tunnel out finished, making plans. What  _ happened _ ?"

She smiled just a little. " _ It's not as bad as it looks. Apparently the Man he torments still defies him, and he never learned not to throw his toys when he's angry _ ."

Gorthir ever so gently wrapped his arm around her. "At least he sent you back."

" _ Well, he did still make me stay until my voice gave out _ ."

"Oh, Ithillin." He carefully began to pick the blood out of her hair.

Gwindor frowned. She'd only missed one shift. If she'd been pushed to her limit in that time, even injured, then her stamina was dropping. They weren't giving her enough time to recover, and she was slowly being used up.

" _ So who is going this time _ ?" she wanted to know. Gorthir gave her names. 

"To be clear, Gorthir--they mean to escape?" Gwindor asked, keeping his voice low. This new hope was a live ember in his chest, and he had to know.

Gorthir nodded. "We don't talk about it much in between chances. Safer that way. Most here don't hear about it until it happens next, if they survive that long. So I guess that's you now."

"How, exactly?"

"There's a natural cave system to the east of here. If you know what you're doing, you can find your way to the surface from there. Every few years we can dig another tunnel into it, get a few people out, collapse the tunnel behind so no one's the wiser."

"That's-that's good to know."

"Eh, it probably keeps a few slaves hanging around instead of provoking the guards into killing them, for better or worse."

* * *

Gwindor wondered how the tension among the prisoners during that shift was going unnoticed by their guards. Perhaps to the Orcs it seemed indistinguishable from their everyday suffering, but to him it was so blatant it made him all the more nervous. He had no part in what was to happen, so he did his best to act no different than usual, but he kept his hearing directed at the northeast tunnel, wondering if he would notice a change in the sound of their work. If he could hear it, the guards could too, but at the same time he ached to know if they would succeed. Something like hope had never fully left him, but with something tangible to attach to, it blazed.

"No, come on, you don't need to go in there,  _ no-- _ " Gorthir muttered to one side, with increasing agitation. Gwindor risked a glance toward the tunnel the hopeful escapees had gathered in. One of the guards had decided to wander in and check up on them. "We have to get his attention somehow," Gorthir whispered.

Gwindor had spent probable years carefully training himself to do the exact opposite, and his mind was sluggish to suggest anything useful. Yet failure was equally dangerous. They might have already broken through into the escape tunnel by now, and if the guard noticed--

"What do you think you're doing?" Meuliel shrieked next to him. He turned to her in bewilderment, not knowing if she was addressing him, or why. She faced him, expression far more bland than her tone had been. Then she deftly swung her pick around and hooked the tip into a link of the chain that connected them. A sharp tug bent the link slightly out of shape with the squeal of metal on metal. "Stop that, you'll get us all in trouble.  _ Guard! Guard!" _ she called out in Orcish.

Gwindor's stomach turned. He would hardly have chosen to play this part in her plan, but the nosy guard was on his way over, so he couldn't exactly complain. He clutched his pick and tried to look like someone who was trying not to look guilty.

" _ What's going on _ ?" the Orc rumbled.

" _ He was messing with the chain _ ," Meuliel accused.  _ "I think he was trying to break it _ ."

The Orc squatted down and examined the damaged link. After a moment he stood and patted Meuliel on the shoulder almost amiably. " _ Good girl. Why don't you sit down and rest while I sort this out." _

" _ Thank you _ ," she simpered. Her smile made Gwindor grimace.

The guard then turned and seized Gwindor by the back of the neck. " _ What do you think you're doing _ ?" he bellowed.

" _ N--nothing. Please--"  _ Gwindor didn't have to pretend to be cowed. But part of him recognized that getting hurt was at this point inevitable, and his goal now was to keep the Orc's attention for as long as possible.  _ "I just slipped, it was an accident. I know the rules. Please, I would never. I don't even think it's possible, these chains are so strong, it wouldn't even be worth--" _

He kept babbling until the guard cuffed him hard across the face. " _ Don't want any more accidents. Think sixteen lashes will teach you to be more careful. You want out? How about we go for a little walk." _

The guard unfastened Gwindor's shackle as Gwindor listened and watched as best he could for any sign of the escape attempt's progress. He followed willingly as he was led away, thankfully in the opposite direction.

As he endured each stripe, Gwindor tried not to imagine how bad his back must look. He'd probably still be bleeding at the start of the next work shift. He tried to tell himself it was for a good cause. He still had some heroism left in him, even if he hadn't quite volunteered for this. 

The fifteenth  _ crack  _ seemed oddly painless, and it took him a moment to realize it hadn't been the whip at all. Seconds later it was followed by a rumbling  _ whoosh _ that echoed through the tunnels. That would be the cave-in, then. He silently wished the escapees good luck, and Seregolodh a speedy journey west.

The guard dragged him to his feet and hauled him along as he rushed to investigate. It only took the guards a few moments to conclude that all prisoners inside the tunnel had probably been lost, and there was nothing to be done. The remaining prisoners were informed that they would still be expected to produce their full quota of ore regardless. The Orc holding Gwindor determined that fourteen lashes was probably enough, chained him up and sent him back to work.

Gorthir tended to Gwindor's back himself as they lay huddled together after the end of shift. "Thank you. They never would have made it without what you did," he told him.

"I don't think I could have brought myself to speak up in time. Meuliel helped." Gwindor tried not to sound too bitter.

Gorthir sighed. "Everyone has their own ways of surviving. This place doesn't bring out the best in any of us. She just--"

"I know. I don't exactly blame her." Neither of them was going anywhere, so hating her just sounded like too much work.

"Well anyway, don't take it the wrong way when I say I'm glad you're here." Gorthir leaned over him and gently kissed his hair.

Gwindor froze. The majority of prisoners were too exhausted after their work to do anything but sleep, but one occasionally heard them, alone or in pairs, taking the only pleasure available to them. Gorthir in particular was well known to use his body in giving and receiving comfort whenever he was welcome. It was nearly as useful to him as talking.

Gwindor had so few chances to be touched with kindness, and yet he felt a stab of guilt at how deeply he enjoyed this one. He didn't even know if Gorthir intended it in precisely that way, but--it was so much--too much--

"I--" he started. "I had--I have--"

Gorthir drew back. "Right. Your, what was it, Faelivrin?"

"Yes," Gwindor answered. "I'm sorry." And yet he ached to give up the chance entirely. Pushing Gorthir away seemed almost as impossible as volunteering for the whipping he'd endured. He reached out without looking and groped for Gorthir's hand.

Gorthir found his and stroked it softly. "No, I apologize," he said. "I won't tell you what's right or wrong. We all have something we'd die before we give up on. But sometimes we break instead. And I...I don't want you to break, Gwindor. You've done so much good here. So please, if I can do anything to carry you further, tell me?"

Had he really done any good? Mostly he felt like the part of him that could care about something other than his own temporary safety was being abraded away until almost nothing remained. And yet Gorthir was here, praising him and offering something better than painlessness and he craved it. He wondered if--

Even now he recoiled a bit from touching on something so private, but once the question occurred to him he couldn't not know. "Was it the same, with my brother?"

Gorthir sighed. "Yes. Oh, Gwindor, I would never wish another child of Eru here, but Gelmir, he was wise, and good, and such a blessing. And he let me help him forget for a while, sometimes, where we are." He raised Gwindor's hand to brush his cheek against it, but no more. Disappointment swirled with relief. "Keep your lady near your heart, then. But whatever she can't do for you--"

Gwindor gripped his hand. "Thank you. I don't deserve this, but thank you for taking care of him."

Gorthir curled up next to him, careful not to touch any part that was still raw. Gwindor did his best to imagine himself in Nargothrond, his beloved's breath in his ear.

* * *

Eventually, Finduilas began simply inviting herself to the weekly meetings where the guard captains reported to her father on the state of the realm. No one had questioned her presence or asked her to leave, though her father occasionally glances in her direction and hesitated when the news was particularly bad. Her own countenance never changed, and she learned much. Knowing more about what was going on, she understood better why her father took the cautious stance he did, but she also felt more confident in contradicting him when it seemed appropriate.

The territory which they could truthfully claim to defend had contracted as the years passed. Roving bands of Orcs and outlaw Men came and went as they pleased throughout much of the north and east. And as the Enemy advanced unchecked, the homeless and dispossessed, scions of Men who had served the houses of the Elves for so many of their brief generations, fled for whatever safety they could find.

But where Nargothrond's borders still held, they were coldly turned away. Finduilas grieved at the thought of the families slaughtered, starving, freezing, and she pressed for them to be shown any mercy. With whatever wealth she could claim for her own personal disposal, she attempted to provide for those in desperate need whenever circumstances allowed. But overall she was able to offer little aid compared to the amount of suffering she knew was taking place.

It was too dangerous, her father said. The kingdom barely had the resources to protect and provide for their own people. And little though she might wish to believe it, Morgoth had touched the hearts of Men, and not all of them could be trusted to dwell so close. He denied her as gently as possible, and commended her tender heart, but refused to bend.

"Father  _ please _ ," she implored. "Even  _ Doriath _ is sheltering refugees from the north now." That was a blatant exaggeration, though he was kind enough not to point it out. Still, she'd like to think she could do better than Elu Thingol in that regard. 

"Doriath still has a power we do not, and cannot, match," was his answer. "I have given you leave to be generous if your spirit so moves you, but circumstances have been no kinder to us than they have to those poor souls you so pity. There is One only who may yet have mercy on us all."

That sounded too much like giving up to Finduilas, and if she had ever lost hope even so much as that she would have abandoned life entirely long ago. But her sorrow for the dying was not enough to justify outright rebellion. As long as her father stood firm, she could do only so much.

Then one year their scouts began to report that in the territory between Nargothrond and Doriath, some force had begun driving back the worst of the evil. The Bow and the Helm, folk spoke of, two great warriors whose exploits seemed at times too prodigious to be fully believed. Yet the land indisputably became safer, by whatever means, and that spark of hope spurred Finduilas onward.

She worked, and planned, and prepared, and schemed and argued, and finally her father relented. That spring, when two small families of Men fleeing from thralldom in Dor Lomin sued for refuge within their borders, they were given leave to settle the rich farmland in the northeast that had long lain fallow. Finduilas tirelessly offered them all the support she could, and was delighted to see them thrive. With the aid of this new force opposing their Enemy, Nargothrond's border guards were able to protect their guests from all remaining harm. The Men worked no less diligently, and reaped enough at harvest time even to share some little gift of thanks with their hosts. Finduilas at last felt that there was hope for new growth and not only a long, protracted defeat.

The following winter, their shield in the north suddenly vanished. The forces of Angband tore through the area as if in retribution for all the time they had been kept at bay. The guards of Nargothrond fought valiantly to defend the tiny fledgling settlement, and many hardy Elven warriors lost their lives in so doing, but it was all to no avail. Husbands, wives and children were slaughtered, their homes sacked and their goods seized.

Her father didn't have to say anything; Finduilas considered her lesson learned. She still objected when further victims of the endless war were turned mercilessly away. But she did so much more quietly.


	14. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Circumstances force the prisoners to get creative. Gwindor tests the dregs of his bravery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that this fic has picked up a content warning for graphic violence. I'd consider the violence described to be "canon-typical"; it mostly consists of one- to two-sentence descriptions of orc deaths, plus one (canon) dismemberment.

 

Gwindor trudged wearily back to the cave after another inteminavle shift in the mines returned to find Ithillin already there, huddled in one corner. As the days dragged on into what had to be years, she and Gorthir tried everything they could do with such limited resources to help her throat heal in between exhausting bouts of singing. The damage continued to mount, however, and they feared that she would not merely be remanded to the mines if Morgoth no longer found her appealing. So in a sense, it was a relief to see her there.

But while she didn't appear visibly injured, she stared blankly past the returning prisoners in a way that was unlike her. Gwindor had seen that expression on too many faces in this pit, but Ithillin was normally one to put on a brave face through her trials. He frowned a bit, but was reluctant to borrow anyone elses trouble for his own.

Gorthir, of course, immediately rushed in and knelt next to her. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

Gwindor settled down in his accustomed patch of rock and decided he was at least interested enough to turn toward them and follow their conversation. " _ I'm not _ ," she signed, still showing little emotion. " _ Sauron stopped him _ ."

Not out of any righteous impulse, surely. Gorthir grimaced. "Sauron did? Why?"

Ithillin hesitated a moment before she explained. "' _ Leave her torso intact at least, and maybe I can breed you another one, _ ' _he said._ " Her lip twitched in imitation of a sneer, but her hands were trembling. " _ I can't do it. Not that. I'd rather die and I'm afraid he won't let me. I'm afraid-- _ " She leaned into Gorthir's chest and a tear slipped down her cheek.

"No, no, moonbeam, never, we'll figure something out." Gorthir stroked her back. "Even--even if that means killing you before he gets to you. I'll find a way. I--I'll do it myself if I have to."

" _ Thank you _ ."

"Do you have any idea if he means to act soon, or--"

" _ I don't know if he was serious, or only said it to placate his master. He has his whims, though. Now the idea is in his head, he might try it anyway. _ "

"All right. Could be any time. Something fast, then. Don't have time for anything elaborate." He stared at the ceiling. "Ugh. I can probably get a knife out of the forges, I know a guy. I can give you that for a way out, if nothing else." His eyes darted toward the door before he spoke again. "Sabarion? How's our latest tunnel coming?"

"Eh. Always hard to tell until we're nearly through. Not that close though, I don't think." A pause. "Sorry."

"Damn," he hissed. He growled softly and tapped the ground as he thought. "Anyone else has a brilliant idea lying around, please feel free to speak up." He pulled Ithillin in closer to him. "I'll rip them apart with my own hands before they take you, if I have to," he muttered.

She slapped his chest lightly and shifted until she had enough room to sign again. " _ No you won't _ .  _ Don't do foolish things just for me. You'll think of something else, you always do. _ " She lay her head on his chest once more.

"There's the collapsed tunnel, what was it, two tunnels ago?" a weak voice rose from the other end of the cavern. No one had moved, but it sounded like it might be Nimfang. "We worried about it being discovered because the cave-in wasn't very thorough, remember? Might not be too hard to dig it back out. If you could somehow keep the guards from finding out."

"Hn. We'd need a reason to be poking around over there, for sure." Gorthir mused. "Although, if we could…" he trailed off, and stared ahead for minutes, deep in thought once again.

Gwindor decided to leave him to it, and settled in to try to get a bit of sleep. He could feel pity for the horror Ithillin feared, but also relief that it was her problem and not his. He hoped they found a way to help her, but he'd just as soon not give it any more thought.

Just as he was beginning to doze, Gorthir spoke up again. "Gwindor, you're pretty good with a sword, aren't you?" he whispered.

Gwindor was tempted to pretend he did not hear. What good could possibly come of talk of swords? But Ithillin's silent tears would not leave his mind. "I was once," he answered at last.

"If you had one, do you think you could take out our normal complement of guards?"

He didn't want to think about it. You didn't fight guards. Fighting guards only got you pain. You kept your eyes on your work and you did as you were told. And yet a tiny part of him wouldn't leave the question alone. "Couldn't do it in chains. Maybe if I," his throat tried to close around the words before he could speak them, "provoked them, got them to pull me out for punishment." Fear squirmed in his gut at the very thought. "Couldn't do it alone, either. I'd at least need someone else to draw their attention, split them up for me."

"Ooh, a good, old-fashioned riot. Haven't had one of those in forever."

"And if Grôkmun is on duty there's no chance at all. She's too strong." He needed to shut his mouth, why were they even discussing this?

"She knows she's worth better than slave-driving, she's been talking about angling for an assignment topside. We could get lucky."

Gwindor was imagining strategic angles, now. If the guards spread out in their usual pattern, he could take first one by surprise and pivot to the second before any of the others reached him. If the other prisoners could keep them from ganging up on him more than two at a time--

No, this was ludicrous. He hadn't held a sword in over a decade, his strength and stamina would be laughable after the deprivation he'd suffered. This was a preposterous fantasy. He wasn't made for heroics anymore.

_ So what good are you then?  _ an insidious thought whispered.

He was  _ alive _ , he told himself fiercely. He was alive and unhurt and what else could anyone expect of him but to do his best to remain that way?

"We could get lucky," he agreed, and forced himself to empty his mind so he could sleep.

 

In the coming days, Gorthir, by sheer force of personality, kept Gwindor convinced not to back down from their blossoming plan. However much Gwindor might doubt their success and  fear the consequences, he found he couldn't let down one who had done so much for him.

In brief spurts behind the guards' backs, they checked the tunnel Nimfang had mentioned, and determined that it could probably be opened at least wide enough to squeeze inside without more than a couple hours' effort. If the guards could be dispatched quickly and quietly enough, they might buy themselves that time. Ithillin was taken from them again earlier than they expected, however, before they were fully prepared. They could only hope she was ready enough to please the Dark Foe, and well enough to run when she returned.

"The sword's ready and waiting

for you," Gorthir informed him quietly as they worked the next shift. "It's hidden just over there, I'll show you where. As soon as they bring Ithillin back, we move."

But she didn't come back. Shift after shift they waited, tense as a bowstring ready to fire, but she was not returned to them. Gwindor had to wonder, as Gorthir certainly was, if Sauron had been serious in his wicked suggestion after all. He and Gorthir, and even some of the others knocked a rock or two loose from their hopeful escape route any time they thought they were unobserved, until any more would surely reveal that which they wished to keep hidden. Still Ithillin did not return.

"We're short a guard today," Gorthir observed once their latest shift was well underway. Gwindor confirmed his count; Bagrûk was missing and hadn't been replaced. "We might never get a better chance than this."

"Chance for what?" Gwindor whispered. "She's not even here."

"Well then the second step will be to sneak back into the fortress proper and look for her."

"Have you lost your wits completely?" Gwindor hissed. "You'll only get yourself killed, or worse. Look, I'll still do what I said I would. And there probably isn't a better time than now. But--"

"I said I'd protect her," Gorthir insisted. "I won't rest until I've done all I can."

Gwindor sighed. "Just say when." He edged over to where the sword was hidden--he could just see the crude hilt glinting from beneath a pile of loose gravel. He started his final tactical evaluation and tried to control the near panic rising in his chest. He was meant to be an Elf, not a slave. To fight for freedom even at his own cost. Maybe this was foolishness, but at least it was something.

Gorthir was talking to a few other people who he could count on for a distraction, getting them in position and telling them what he needed them to do. He took his own place, closer to one of the Orcs than any of them usually tried to get. Finally, he turned to Gwindor, caught his eye, and nodded.

Gwindor took a deep breath, and stepped off the proverbial cliff. " _ You stink _ ," he muttered in Orcish just loud enough for the nearest guard to hear. 

" _ What was that _ ?" the nearest guard approached and growled in his ear.

" _ Back off. I said you stink, and I can't stand it anymore _ ." Saying that out loud for once was actually rather exhilarating. He nudged the sword with his toe just to check it was still there.

The guard cuffed him across the jaw, whip in hand. " _ Mouthy today, ain't ya _ ."

Head ringing just a bit, Gwindor carried on, to make sure he would indeed be found insolent enough to be taken out for a whipping. " _ Why shouldn't I be, if it's the truth?" _

Another blow, this time to the ribs, left Gwindor wheezing slightly. " _ Eight lashes ought to still your tongue, and you're lucky I don't cut it from your head _ ."

The guard knelt and began to undo Gwindor's shackles. Gwindor's relief at his first success was mixed with the gut-gnawing dread he come to associate with this maneuver, and the tense anticipation of what he was about to do next. He studied the Orc's armor as he waited, looking for weak spots and determining exactly where he ought to strike.

As soon as both his legs were free, and before the guard could fully rise to his feet, Gwindor dropped down, plunged his hand into the gravel, and closed his grip around the sword. It felt as natural as if he'd held one only yesterday. In a single motion he drew it forth, whipped it up, and plunged it cleanly into the Orc's neck and out the other side. Blood oozed down the blade as the Orc gurgled its last breath.

Chaos erupted around him even as he pushed the Orc over and worked his sword free. Another guard rushed at him as Gorthir and the others went for the rest.

Plenty of prisoners simply cowered in terror, pled that they were not involved and begged for mercy. But those who chose to help provided enough interference that Gwindor could face the second guard alone. After a brief clash of weapons, Gwindor managed a deep slice into the Orc's thigh that fountained blood until the Orc dropped several seconds later.

Before he could turn to find his next opponent they were there behind him, using a whip handle to put him in a chokehold. For panicked moments he kicked and swung frantically, before he remembered his long-ago training, stilled, then leveraged an opening through which he could slip free. The Orc was on him again as soon as he could spin around. 

As he'd feared, he was already beginning to tire. His lungs burned and odd muscles unused for decades ached in protest. He found himself unable to do more than fend off incoming blows, and even that was becoming difficult as the Orc pressed him further.

Just as he was sure he would either have to retreat or die, the Orc shot from his field of view, tackled from the side. The Orc quickly recovered and knocked the new assailant aside with a mighty blow to the head. An Elf slid several feet across the rough stone floor and remained there, unmoving. Gwindor found a new source of strength within himself. None of the rest of these poor souls could be hurt because of his weakness.

Everything became a haze of shouts and blood and pain. Gwindor's focus narrowed to the next attack, and the next, and the next.

Eventually they stopped coming.

He looked around. All the guards lay unmoving, and more than one prisoner beside them. Gwindor himself, amazingly, had gotten out with no more than a few scrapes and bruises. Maybe the most desperate battle he'd ever survived, and he wouldn't even have a scar to show for it all, he though somewhat giddily.

He used the nearest scrap of cloth to clean his blade. Who knew when he might need it again. 

"Let's clear the rest of this away and get you all out," Gorthir was saying. He set a couple of the survivors to watch for any approaching Orcs. Now that everyone was able to work without fear of being seen, the promise of freedom motivated even the weakest among them; they opened a way through within minutes.   
  


"Move as fast as you can," Gorthir urged as the prisoners filed into the tunnel

"I don't know if we were heard or how soon they'll send more guards. Valar willing, I'll come through behind you once I've got Ithillin." 

Meuliel had been one of the first in, but she reappeared a few minutes later. "Here," she said, dropping something in Gorthir's hands. "You'll need this." It was a fine mesh bag filled with jewels that glowed a faint blue: obviously some sort of ancient magic.

"What does it do?" Gwindor had to ask.

Meuliel looked at him like he was stupid. "It glows." She darted back into the tunnel.

"Feanorian lamp," Gorthir elaborated. "The Noldor brought them from across the sea. A few made their way down here, with the poor souls who carried them. We try to keep them tucked away in the escape tunnels, to guide the way out." He held it up and let it dangle in front of him. "She was probably right about needing it more back there, though."

Gwindor watched the last few prisoners trickle into the tunnel, trying not to think too hard about the decision he had in truth already made. When Gorthir turned and started up the tunnel, back toward the cave where they slept, Gwindor fell in behind him, sword in hand.  Gorthir glanced at him, once, but said nothing. Gwindor was grateful for it; if he’d urged Gwindor to leave him, Gwindor didn’t know if he’d have the nerve to stay.

They weren't so lucky as to find Ithillin waiting for them back in their little cave. Gwindor hadn't really expected it, but it would have been a mistake not to try. Gorthir paused and listened carefully for approaching footsteps, and Gwindor did the same. Hearing nothing, for now, they crept quietly toward the center of Angband, up the same corridor that Gwindor had last traversed so many years before.

Their only scrap of a plan was to find their way to the very throne of Morgoth, hope Ithillin was there singing, and then not let her out of their sight until she was alone or at least guarded by less than an actual Vala. All while keeping hidden themselves. Once they found her, they could start considering how best to rescue her. They assumed they were headed in the right direction when things started to get less cramped and more grandiose, though no more well-lit. Every so often they found it prudent to duck into an empty room or shadowed alcove and wait, hearts pounding, until orcs or werewolves or nameless blood-dripping horrors passed them by, but they made fairly swift progress nonetheless.

Eventually, Gwindor began to worry whether they were going the right way after all. They seemed to be going in circles, skirting the edges of what could be a large, central chamber but never able to find a way in from where they were. Then Gorthir tapped him on the shoulder as they snuck along another weaving side passage. " _ Listen _ ," he signed, and cocked his head ahead and to his left.

Gwindor froze and focused. Almost too quiet for him to hear, the sound of singing floated up to meet him. It seemed unutterably beautiful after so long in this horrid place. Treading as silently as possible, Gorthir raced down every passage that brought it closer, rounding turns almost without remembering to check for danger first unless Gwindor stopped him. After retracing their steps away from a few dead ends, they discovered a tiny archway through which they could hear and see clearly, perched high above an immense seated figure. Far below them, two brilliant jewels in a black iron crown threw dazzling arcs of light around the spacious room, filling all but the shadowed corners where Orcs cowered away from the holy radiance.

And there she was, in the center of it all. Dressed in fine gold-edged silks, ribbons in her hair of blue and purple so dark they were almost black, standing before the dark Vala, unbound by any chain so far as they could see. The room echoed with the sweet song that he'd never before had the privilege to hear. What Morgoth was doing to her was unforgivable, but the beauty of her voice could not be denied.

By some miracle, they’d succeeded in their first goal. Now they waited, for what had to be hours, as she sang almost without rest. As they watched, Gwindor identified every entrance into the room that he could see. He tried to place in his mind where they would let out into the larger web of passageways, and how they might get there to intercept her when and if she was taken away.

Finally, Ithillin's voice cracked on a high note and Morgoth rumbled threateningly. A chilling fear shot through Gwindor at the sound, though not nearly as bad as she must have felt as she curled her arms protectively around herself. She rubbed her throat, swallowed, and continued to sing. Minutes later, however, she trailed off hoarsely in the middle of a cadenza that devolved into a rasping cough. At a minute gesture from the Vala, a mere twitch of one huge finger, she forced herself to become quiet. “ _ Enough _ .” The voice resonated with the force of a small army. At a wave of his hand, an Orc approached her and closed shackles around Ithillin’s wrists. Gwindor leaned forward and watched keenly as she was led away through a small door to their left.

His mind immediately began whirring. He thought he could piece together where they were in relation to each other and how he could get closer to Ithillin and her escort if he and Gorthir moved quickly. " _ Down the stairs by that storeroom _ ?" he confirmed.

Gorthir was already moving that direction; Gwindor hurried after him. They wove around enemies' lines of sight without ever slowing and were unbelievably fortunate not to draw anything's attention. Gwindor didn't know exactly what clue would lead them to rediscover Ithillin's exact position, but he kept his eyes and ears open for anything.

Gorthir held up a hand, then pointed right; Gwindor didn't see what he'd spotted but changed course accordingly. They slipped into a shadowed corner moments before Gwindor picked up a susurrus of movement that was not the clanking lumbering of an Orc or the click of a wolf's claws. A handful of heartbeats later, Ithillin and her guard walked into view.

Gwindor did a rapid tactical review, estimating the probable location of every creature they'd just passed. He thought he knew what he needed to do. He looked at Gorthir, who nodded. Hopefully they were thinking the same thing, because he couldn't wait any longer to act. As soon as the pair passed by them, Gwindor stepped out of the shadows, grabbed the Orc by the hair, and dragged his blade across their throat.

Ithillin jumped back and wheezed heavily. If she'd been able to, he thought she might have shrieked in spite of herself. But then Gorthir was pulling her into his arms and holding on to her as if he hoped to never let her go again. She pressed against him and reciprocated as best she could. " _ Keys _ ," Gorthir eventually signed one-handed, without releasing her. 

Gwindor searched the Orc's body and turned up a ring bearing keys of various sizes. Once Gorthir could be convinced to step back for a moment, they unbound Ithillin's hands. " _ Let's get you out of here _ ," Gorthir signed.

All three of their heads turned to the sound of footsteps coming toward them--several pairs. " _ Come to my room--it's just this way _ ," Ithillin signed quickly. She led them a short distance around a corner and up a few steps, grabbing the keys from Gwindor as they walked in order to unlock a heavy, iron-bound door. As soon as they were all inside she shut it firmly behind them.

The room was small, but well furnished with a soft bed, a small table, and numerous tapestries and cushions. Gwindor struggled to remember that luxuries greater than these had once seemed to him commonplace, even expected. He didn’t think he’d wish to be in Ithillin’s place, however.

" _ We can't stay here long _ ," she signed to them, expression still tense with worry. " _ Sauron could come for me any time _ ."

"Did he--" Gorthir could hardly name what he wanted to know.

" _ Not that. Not yet. He's been trying...things. To improve my voice _ ." Gwindor noticed for the first time a small, half-healed scar at the base of her throat. Whatever he’d done, Gwindor doubted he’d kept her comfort in mind.   
  


Gorthir listened at the door. "What do you think our chances are of making it back the way we came?" he asked.

"Three will be that much harder to hide than two, and it's quite a distance even if we take a more direct route. I'd try another way if we knew of one." was Gwindor's opinion.

Ithillin's brows knit in thought, then she motioned them over to a corner of her room. She pulled aside a plushly woven rug and hefted aside a loose stone in the floor. Beneath there opened a narrow crevice that dropped away deep enough that it grew dark before he could see the bottom. He thought they might just be able to squeeze through it one after the other.

" _ It's some kind of natural fissure. I barely had to dig at all to find it _ ," she told them. " _ I tried to climb down it once but not for long. I didn't want them to come for me while I was down there and see me missing if I couldn't get out that way." _

"Do you know where it goes?" Gorthir asked.

Ithillin shrugged. " _ Drafts come up from there, and I hear voices sometimes. I think it might be another one of the mines _ ."

Gorthir looked at each of them. "Think it's worth the risk?"

Gwindor sighed. "Everything's a risk. There was never much chance of any of us getting out of Angband alive, and if we--"

A sudden wave of dread, inexplicably awful even considering their current circumstances, rose up in Gwindor. The air felt thick, oppressive, like some overseer's whim had denied him permission to breathe it. By his companions' faces, they felt it too.

" _ He's coming _ ," signed Ithillin, her terror making the  _ who _ clear.

" _ Let's go _ ," Gorthir signed, and lowered himself into the crack. Gwindor let Ithillin go next, while he brought up the rear, awkwardly clutching his sword under one arm as he climbed

The walls of the crevice were close enough together that they could let themselves drop and press their limbs out occasionally to slow their descent. It rapidly grew too dark to see much of anything, but Gorthir continued to keep his lamp covered lest their method of escape be discovered by prying eyes overhead, or something unknown below. 

They reached a ledge on which they could walk or crawl for a few steps before they headed downward again, and the passage never widened farther than they could reach with outstretched arms. They went on for so long that Gwindir wondered if they might have dropped below even the level of the mines. As they continued their descent, the air began to grow warm and to stink heavily of sulphur.

After being in the dark for so long, he wasn't quite sure whether to believe his eyes when he began to perceive a dim orange glow silhouetting his companions below him. He nearly asked if they knew what it was, but figured silence was safer and if he needed to know they'd tell him.

The crevice finally opened maybe eight feet above the floor of a huge, open cavern. The glow emanated from what appeared to be scattered pools of molten rock; even from far above them he could feel their intense heat. The three of them slid and scrabbled down to the ground without suffering any serious injuries.

"Now what," Gwindor muttered as he began to examine their surroundings. The glowing pools filled the cavern with both light and shadows, and if there was another way out it was not immediately obvious. He slowly circled around the perimeter, skirting away wherever the heat became too much to bear.

In the center of the cavern was a shallow, sandy pit, and in the center of the pit was a cluster of smooth, round stones each just taller than Gorthir was. Gorthir and Ithillin approached them and began to investigate. They signed to each other, a conversation Gwindor ignored as he continued his own scouting.

On the far side from where they had entered, the cavern extended farther than he had originally realized, the floor sloping up slightly as he walked. He caught a lazy current of cool air near his shins and began trying to follow it back toward its source. As he went, the upward slope became steeper and the cavern narrowed into a wide tunnel that gradually turned and twisted until he was cut off from the glow behind him.

When he could no longer see the path ahead of him, he turned back to retrieve his companions and show them what he'd found. Gorthir ran a hand along the tunnel's wall. "Part of this is carved, not natural," he observed. "Wonder what it's intended for."

"Troop movements, maybe? All those orcs that seem to pop out of nowhere?"

"Hn. Still could be our best bet, if we hurry." Gorthir risked unveiling the lamp and they began hiking up the tunnel. They took care to pay attention so as not to risk getting lost, but the tunnel never narrowed or branched anywhere that they could see, only twisted along in an ever upward climb.

Just as Gwindor began to feel the first inklings of hope that they might actually get out alive, Ithillin stopped short. " _ Listen _ ," she signed. All of them held still, and Gwindor heard a faint hissing, scraping sound, like mail being dragged across stone. Gorthir covered the lamp, and they backed against one wall, though they had nowhere to truly hide from anything that could sense them in the dark. Gwindor readied his sword.

The sound grew louder. Just around the corner, they heard an awful sniffing and snuffling, that sounded like it had to be made by something far larger than a horse. It drew nearer until it would have had to be visible if they could see anything at all. Gwindor trembled as warm breath played across their bodies.

"What'sss thisss, my dearsss?" hissed a voice as deep and dark as the ocean floor. It sniffed again. "Not Orcsss. Not wolvesss. Not Massstersss." Ithillin gripped Gwindor's hand as something nudged against her. " _ Vermin _ . Filthy creeping vermin too bony to make a mouthful." It emitted a booming huff. "They've been touching the  _ eggsss _ , my dearssss."

Gorthir pulled out the lamp. If they were already discovered, they had to know what they were facing to have any chance of survival. A spiked reptilian head came into view, and beyond it a scaled body big enough to nearly fill the tunnel. It hissed and recoiled momentarily from the sudden light. "Can't have them getting their filthy pawsss all over my darlingsss," it roared, and heaved its long, muscular neck forward to snap at them with massive jaws.

Their one advantage was being more nimble than the dragon, especially in this tight space. They were all able to dart back and avoid the first attack. As it advanced on them, they weaved and dodged around teeth and claws. Gwindor brandished his sword, but saw no likely way through the beast's thick hide. They couldn't keep this up forever, not if they ever wanted to escape. 

Ithillin saw an opening, took a chance, and was able to slip past the dragon without more than a scrape. Gorthir followed immediately behind her, though he was caught and slammed against the tunnel wall by the dragon's lashing tail.

Gwindor glanced his sword off the dragon's snout, just to get its attention, as Gorthir got his feet under him and caught his breath. "Run!" Gwindor shouted. "Go!" he insisted when they seemed to hesitate.

With a last, mournful look, they finally turned and started to flee up the tunnel. Gwindor's relief turned to dismay, however, when the dragon proved itself more lithe than it had seemed, and twisted itself around to face the other direction. Gwindor struck it in the haunch but it ignored him; apparently two fleeing targets were more appealing than one. With the massive dragon now between him and Gorthir's lamp, he could barely see anything, and struggled to find a way past it himself.

The wink of receding blue light became clearer for an instant, and he pushed himself between the dragon's bulk and the wall in a maneuver that he never would have been able to pull off were he not so thin. He hurried to rejoin the others, but the dragon didn't have to expend any apparent effort in order to gain ground on them. "Can't have vermin lurking by the nessst," it hissed as it continued to harry them.

Gwindor stopped running and turned to face it. They didn't have its strength or stamina, and if they kept running, it would likely catch them before they could escape. His only hope was that the creature was more annoyed and protective than bloodthirsty, and would retreat to its nest if he made himself enough of a nuisance.

He noted but could not be more than exasperated that the light at his back did not fade as he sized the dragon up one last time. The eye and the mouth might be vulnerable enough to seriously inconvenience it. The mouth was full of teeth, but also a larger target. He waited for it to prepare to snap, and then--

As he charged, he recognized that this was by far the most foolish thing he had ever willingly done. He silently apologized to Finduilas. Even if only two people ever knew of it, he would at least die a hero, not a slave.

He hooked his free hand around an enormous fang for leverage, and jammed the sword as far into the dragon's mouth as he could. With satisfaction, he felt the tip sink into the beast's palate; he slipped his grip back and pushed on the pommel with the heel of his hand for good measure.

The dragon's shriek was deafening. It snapped its mouth shut with crushing force as it drew back, pulling the sword away as well as driving it further in. It writhed and clawed desperately at its mouth, then turned and scurried away down the tunnel, spitting and muttering half-slurred curses about "filthy biting vermin" as it went.

Gwindor stared at the shredded remains of his left hand for several seconds before the battle-fervor faded and the pain bloomed. Dropping to one knee and curling his body around the wound did nothing to quell the burning agony. His ragged clothes quickly became soaked with his own blood as it gushed forth in time with his heart. He had a vague awareness of Gorthir and Ithillin coming to his side. They coaxed him to show them the wound, and Ithillin donated one of her hair ribbons to serve as a tourniquet around his wrist.

Once they'd stemmed the flow of blood and bandaged him as well as they could with their meager resources, they resumed their climb up the tunnel. Gwindor occasionally murmured something about not wanting to slow them down, but he mostly let them drag him along as he trudged through a haze of pain. They might have walked for hours, but no one suggested they stop to rest no matter how much their legs began to ache or Gwindor’s head spun.

Gorthir was the first to see it. "Stars," he whispered reverently. Gwindor raised his head. In a small gap ahead of them, tiny specks of immaculate light shone amid the darkness. Air fresh and cleaner than he'd breathed in years rushed into him. Gwindor found the strength to increase his pace almost to a run, his friends equally eager beside him.

And they stood beneath the sky, the whole of Elbereth's creation ablaze overhead. The tunnel surfaced in the middle of a blasted plain, crisscrossed with with huge claw prints and tail tracks. Thangorodrim towering to the north, and the shadowed pines of the highlands loomed to the south.

Ithillin signed something that Gwindor didn’t see, then pointed east. An eerie glow illuminated the distant mountains, bright enough that it blotted out nearby stars. For a moment Gwindor’s stomach lurched, fearing the approach of some unfathomable force just out of sight. Then, a half-remembered image swam up, dream-like, from his memory. He and Finduilas, slipping out the gates of Nargothrond to watch-- _ the dawn _ .

“Oh,” he whispered. He let Ithillin pull him into joining a tight three-way hug.

They needed to keep moving. They needed to find food, and water, and shelter. They eventually needed to get into safer territory, if any still existed.

But for a while they stood and watched the sun rise.

 


	15. Bloodstained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunion Scene. REUNION SCENE. rEUniON ScENE. 
> 
> That Fucking Guy show up at last. Gwindor adjusts to life back in Nargothrond. Celebrimbor is not always a perfect ally, but he tries.

Once they stopped moving, Gwindor rapidly realized that the surface was far colder than the underground had been, and the few scraps of clothing that remained to them offered little protection. Soon enough, Gorthir turned to the south and began walking once again, his breath clouding the air in the early morning light.

“That forest has had an evil reputation since Morgoth’s fires swept through it,” Gwindor cautioned as he followed. “Taur-nu-Fuin, it is called now. I do not know what dangers may wait for us there.”

“The plain will give us no cover and no provisions. The forest might,” Gorthir replied.

They saw no sign as they travelled of the others who, they hoped, had escaped. None of the three knew where exactly where the others would have emerged.  But if they could see no sign of their presence, perhaps their erstwhile captors could not either. Unless and until luck favored them with a chance encounter, each group would need to survive on their own. 

The angle of the sun, the biting chill of the air, the few withered, brown leaves clinging to stubby scrub-oaks woven amid the pines all said that they seemed to have emerged in late autumn at best, if not early winter. The tallest trees cast long shadows that darkened the woods even in the brightest part of the day. They discovered that on the thick, thorny brambles that so often encroached on their path there remained a few dark, sweet berries. It wouldn't sustain them forever, but when after several hours a small taste had done them no harm, they all consumed what little they could find.

The urge was strong to put as much distance as possible between them and the place of their torment, but Gwindor had lost a lot of blood and none of them had slept in almost two days. When their exhaustion exceeded their fear of capture, they collapsed against a towering boulder and huddled together, the needle-strewn mould a softer bed than they were accustomed to, but a colder one.

Gwindor had just begun to doze when Ithillin shifted, then suddenly leaped to her feet. Before she had fully raised her hands to sign, Gwindor could hear something crashing heedlessly through the woods. It rapidly resolved into the sound of many feet and many voices, far away but growing nearer.

They fled from the sound with speed energized by terror. But the luck that had so far favored them seemed to have reached its end. However much they pushed passed scraping branches and clinging thorns, the cruel woods circumscribed their way forward as the horde behind them grew louder. Glancing back, Gwindor began to glimpse the unmistakable profiles of burly Orcs and slinking wolves. Finally, Gorthir pulled his two companions into a shallow gorge, where they crouched and willed their breathing and heartbeats silent.

Gwindor decided he'd rather see the danger coming even he could do little about it, and kept his eyes open as an endless procession of Orcs marched by within feet of their hiding place. He watched, frozen, as a grizzled wolf idly sniffed the ground they had passed over moments before. It was hauled back by its master moments before it could make them out or alert to what it had found.

His heart sank with a sickened ache when a tall Man in chains passed before them, grim eyed and head unbowed. Gwindor knew firsthand how the short lives of Men were whittled even shorter in the grueling pits of Angband. He hated to condemn one of such steely and unflinching gaze to the agonies they'd just escaped. But he had no weapon now. He was still injured. And there were so many of them. He just  _ couldn't-- _

Gorthir squeezed his shoulder. " _ You don't have to save them all _ ," he signed with close, attenuated movements. " _ I know how much it hurts, believe me _ ."

Gwindor sighed and leaned into Gorthir's chest, and tried not to think about the prisoner as the last of the Orcs straggled by. When the crunch and clatter of their passage could barely be heard once more, the three crept cautiously in the opposite direction, until they felt safe enough to stop and plan their next move.

"They came up from the southwest," Gorthir observed softly. "There could be more of them."

Gwindor nodded, but his chest felt tight. He couldn't truthfully know whether Nargothrond still stood after the devastation of the northern forces in that last, horrific battle. "That way may not be safe anymore." he admitted. "But…" He knew already that he couldn't give up without knowing for sure, but he was loath to expose his friends to the same danger.

" _ But you're going to try anyway _ ," Ithillin supplied for him.

"My home, with any hope, still lies there. As does my heart."

Gorthir and Ithillin looked at each other for a long moment. "If I had only myself to think of…" Gorthir started apologetically.

"I know I can't ask you to take that risk. Either of you."

" _ Sorry _ ," Ithillin signed, her face full of regret. “ _ You’re still injured. Are you sure you won’t stay with us a little longer? _ ”

“Where will you go?”

The two of them had never discussed much where they had originally come from or where they planned to go. "I want to head east, I think," Gorthir said now. "Past the rivers, maybe even past the mountains. There has to be somewhere that's out of  _ his _ reach."

Although an icy seed of dread grew within him at the thought of going on alone, he couldn’t really even consider not making for Nargothrond as quickly and directly as possible. “I’ll be all right,” he assured her. “I’ve survived worse, and if some ill fate does take me, I’ll be glad to know you’re somewhere else.” He tried to smile, but it seemed obvious bravado even to him; when they’d met, he’d still had all his extremities.

Now that it had been decided, they all seemed to agree that there was no use prolonging their farewell. Before they parted, Ithillin unhooked the lamp from Gorthir's belt and handed it to Gwindor. 

"Yes, take it," Gorthir agreed. "You will likely need it the most."

Gwindor accepted the gift gratefully. He allowed himself a long, tight embrace with each of them. "May the stars guide and protect you. With Elbereth's blessing, we will meet again one day." he said. 

Gorthir kissed him gently one last time. "I think I might take up my right name again now that I'm a free Elf. If you ever find your way east, ask around for Tadhion." Gwindor allowed himself to watch them until he lost sight of them in the trees before he started on his own long journey.

As the day wore on, darkness encroached faster than would be expected from the sinking of the sun. Gwindor moved through the forest in a protective bubble of soft blue light, alert to every passing sound. Soft creaks and rustlings caught just at the edge of his hearing; unseen tendrils grasped at his ankles if he ever stopped moving. He'd swear the trees themselves were shifting around him in the dimness at the edge of the lamp's reach.

He first needed to get safely out of the Orcs' range; by morning they would hopefully have passed far behind him. Only the occasional star flickered in and out of view, however, as thick clouds moved in overhead. He could not be very sure he was keeping a straight course away from them and toward the edge of the forest. The wind whistled through the tops of the pines as he listened for any sign of danger.

Though he grew weary, fear of recapture kept him moving just a few steps farther, and then a few more. He crossed a small burbling stream, but something about the water made him uneasy, not smell or color but something in its very spirit. Thirsty though he was, he passed it by and hoped that the storm would bring clean rain instead.

Finally, something caught at his feet and sent him pitching forward. With his one hale hand carrying the lamp and his injured one cradled close to his body, he had little ability to catch his balance and landed hard on elbows and knees. He struggled to recover himself, but hunger and fatigue robbed him of the strength to stand. He crawled amid the sharp, dry pine needles covering the forest floor until he his path was blocked by the bole of a great fallen tree. 

Hoping that it would provide shelter and cover enough, he wedged himself into the space beneath it. He only needed to rest for a little while, he told himself, and then he would find his way out of the forest and set his feet on the road home. Though he shivered in the cold, his thoughts soon drifted and his breathing slowed; dreams rose in his mind of gentle laughter and soft, fragrant hands.

He awoke, still in darkness, to the sensation of something looming over him. Terror lanced through him and he was rolling into a crouch before he'd fully regained his wits. He whipped his head around, ready to run as soon as he figured out which direction would take him  _ away _ .

"Please don't be afraid," a voice said softly in the accent of Doriath.

 

* * *

 

Gwindor hardly dared breathe, but couldn't help but inch closer as he listened to Turin's song. There was a passion, a wildness in it that frightened him. But what it brimmed over with was love. Love and pain poured out of the Man’s mouth like a lanced wound bleeding out poison, until it flowed clean. It was nearly dawn when he finished, and Gwindor hesitantly cradled him as he collapsed, exhausted but no longer insensible.

Gwindor had been no stranger to caring for those who, in their despair, would not so much as eat without prompting. He'd often aided Gorthir--Tadhion--in coaxing some poor soul through one more day of life. However, he welcomed his companion's transformation into one slightly more animated. While he remained for the most part taciturn, he at least confirmed his willingness to accompany Gwindor to Nargothrond. "Every home I have known is lost to me," he said. "Your generosity is greater than I deserve, and yet I will not decline the offer."

As they continued to travel south, Gwindor attempted to tease out whatever knowledge he could about this grim Man. Poor Beleg had given only a rushed, haphazard account of his background, colored by devotion and desperation. He was apparently the son of the very Hurin who Morgoth had captured and held prisoner, and cursed, but could not break. The scion of many valiant warriors of Men, and a fearsome swordsman in his own right.

"If it does not pain you too much to speak of it," Gwindor asked tentatively, "I would hear more of the tale by which a Man of Dor-Lomin so closely befriended a marchwarden of Doriath."

"He was known to me from my childhood," Turin answered succinctly.

"Has King Thingol extended the reach of his patrols so far north, then? It does not seem like him."

"He has not yet shown pity for those who languish under the incursion of the Men of the east. But when my mother begged him, he was so generous as to foster me for a few years."

Even that was surprising behavior from the king who had once sent Beren to his death. But seeing Turin's manners and way of speaking, he did not doubt it. Whatever had finally driven him from Melian's protection and landed him in the hands of Morgoth's army, it wounded his heart still. Gwindor did not ask further after that part of his past, but did hear of how Turin and Beleg had defended the plains between Nargothrond and Doriath, and thanked him for it. As recently as earlier that winter, his homeland had been safe.

As they approached the borders Gwindor himself had once defended, he began to watch for the scouts that were sure to intercept them. Still, his heart was eased as they passed each landmark on the familiar journey down the Narog. "I recognize that tree!" he remarked at one point. And with a bittersweet smile, "My brother Gelmir had to rescue me from the top of it once, and it was not nearly as tall then."

"Will you have family to welcome you home?" Turin asked, showing unexpected interest in return.

"With hope, but not him. He dwells with Mandos now, and suffers no more." It was Gwindor’s turn to hurt too much to speak further.

They walked in silence for a while. "I had a younger sister once,” Turin disclosed.  “Well, I have one still, if no ill has befallen her, but not--" He swallowed. "A plague took Lalaith when she was very young. I've never actually met Nienor."

Laughter and Sorrow. How very like the lives that Morgoth's war destroyed. At least Gwindor had hope he may one day, in the further reaches of time, see his brother again. Men must take any such promise on faith, for which he now pitied and admired them.

Even forest-raised Turin was not so nimble footed that a stray root could not occasionally ensnare him. His great height did him no favors as he stumbled forward, but fate was kind to him that day. At that moment, an arrow from a silent, unseen bow whistled through the space Turin's head had occupied moments before.

" _ There _ they are," Gwindor muttered.

 

* * *

 

Finduilas and her father were two hours into an increasingly heated discussion with the council on whether rationing would be necessary to get everyone through to the first harvest. She was sure all present had the best interest of the kingdom in mind, but no one wanted to admit that their preferred approach would have any drawbacks. They talked past, and around, and over each other and got nowhere, each refusing to concede anything that would make them look weak. Out of sheer mental exhaustion, she let her eyes wander the room. She didn't know how long Gansadh had been standing just inside the door, stained and rumpled from the wilds, when she finally noticed her. 

"Forgive the interruption, Sire," Gansadh murmured in the King's ear once she was acknowledged and invited to speak. "Morgaladh and I caught a couple of vagabonds crossing the northern border. We would have just slain them as usual, but--” She pursed her lips. “One of them begged an audience with you and there's something strange about-- well, perhaps you ought to see for yourself."

Her father glanced uneasily at his advisors, probably fearing what new quarrels would spring up behind his back as soon as he left. Finduilas didn't know if they yet respected her enough that she could control them in his absence. But this other matter might be in her power. "I can go," she offered.

"Thank you, Finduilas. Yes, please do. You can report to me," her father sighed heavily, "once we're done here."

So she followed Gansadh wearily to the north gate, hoping the matter was one she in fact would have the authority to deal with herself. She did her best to lead alongside her father, but  _ Princess _ could be a treacherous title. "All right, what's the issue, then?" she wondered aloud as she stepped into the small entry chamber. As reported, she found Morgaladh waiting idly near two bound and bedraggled figures, an Elf and a Man--no, a Man and an Elf?--one of them, at least, now staring at her with rapt adoration--

 

\--wait--

 

_ no-- _

 

She gasped like she'd been punched in the stomach and stared straight back at him until she could believe that her eyes were not deceiving her. Then every emotion she'd avoided feeling for the past two decades boiled up inside her and fought to break free, and to her surprise, what came out first was  _ anger _ .

"Morgaladh! Gansadh!" she hissed. "I recognize that my father and I have been of different opinions on how best to keep the kingdom safe, and while I commend your loyal service, I have had  _ enough _ . We may have suspicion for strangers and even those who called us friends. But I do not see how we can claim to be any kind of civilized people if this is the welcome that we afford a  _ prince of Nargothrond!"  _ By then she was undeniably shouting, and at the same time near tears.

Gansadh looked at her doubtfully. Then she looked back at their prisoners, and frowned.

Finduilas realized belatedly that the more she had raised her voice, the more the Elf had shrunk in on himself, until he was practically cringing before her. The posture was utterly unlike him; she couldn't bear to see it. She rushed toward him, murmuring, "No, no, oh my beloved I'm so sorry, oh please, no." 

Hardship she could barely imagine had worn lines into his face, but when he looked at her, his expression softened instantly. "You need never apologize,” he said softly. “My Faelivrin."

Morgaladh blinked. "Elbereth," he muttered. " _ Gwindor _ ?"

"Unbind them. Now," Finduilas ordered.

"Both of them?" Morgaladh asked plaintively.

"I'm sure Gwindor can vouch for his companion, yes?"

Gwindor nodded. "He has been a worthy ally in my travels. He is c--"

"I am called Agarwaen, son of Umarth," the Man spoke for the first time, in a deep, clear voice.

Morgaladh slit the ropes binding their arms behind them. As soon as he was free, Finduilas threw her arms around Gwindor and held him, heedless of anything going on around them. She was weeping freely by now, her breath coming in long shudders. Eventually she went to take his hands in hers and only then noticed that the left one was half missing, merely a twisted knot of scar tissue remaining where it had been.

"Oh, Gwindor," she breathed.

He dropped his eyes and looked almost embarrassed. "I’m sorry I couldn't return my whole self to you. I kept my promise the best I could."

It didn't matter. She had him back and she was never going to lose him again and she was going to make this all right.

 

* * *

 

Orodreth welcomed Gwindor home with acclamation and feasting and all due honor. The people of Nargothrond followed his lead to a greater or shamefully lesser degree. Gwindor responded to the lingering looks and whispered comments only with silence. Finduilas tried to honor his judgement in that which touched him nearer than her, but made sure to raise the matter privately with her father.

Orodreth addressed her complaint with infuriatingly diplomacy. "Many of Nargothrond's citizens are wary of one who--through the best of fortune, has--and from a certain perspective it is understandandable--"

"Stop," she cut him off fiercely. "I cannot listen to this. He has suffered the direst torments and under great risk and with unfathomable bravery returned to us. He has done  _ nothing _ to deserve the scorn and suspicion he has found here."

"I have never thought it my place to dictate to the hearts of my people." Finduilas almost had to physically bite her tongue to avoid shooting back a regrettable remark. "Officially, he has been restored to his full title and station. I can set a good example in my own behavior, which you know I do, and I can insist that no law be broached against him. But trying to change people's feelings by force can only make things worse." 

She hated that she knew he was right. "I’m sure I can at least get them to be suspicious a bit more quietly if I put my mind to it," she grumbled.

"That is much more your place than mine," her father agreed. "The influence of a princess can be put to great use where a king's decree cannot, or should not."

She defended her beloved's honor gladly, regretting only those times her duty prevented her from spending long hours holding him. And though it pained her, she did not tarry long in telling him how his mother had not long survived his absence. He hung his head and wept on her breast, but did not seem entirely surprised.

Whenever she had the chance, she tried to get to know their new guest better. He also had been given great honor for one of unknown background, but he hung close by Gwindor nearly always, and haunted the corridors of Nargothrond like a shade. Something about him intrigued her; there had to be more depth to him than could be revealed by his curt one and two word answers to her questions.

Celebrimbor had been conspicuously absent at the homecoming feast, and only emerged from the forges several days after their arrival, obliviously triumphant over the success of his latest project. "Finduilas! Found you!" he called, bursting into the small dining room where she, Gwindor, and Agarwaen lingered over a late lunch. "I did it, I got it to--oh, sorry, I didn't know you had guests. Do I--" His frown was understandable; Nargothrond did not normally acquire new faces these days. She didn't have to say anything, though, before recognition brought his grin roaring back. " _ Gwindor! _ "

He took a swift step forward and she felt Gwindor startle next to her. Celebrimbor stopped himself short. He approached more slowly and slid an open hand cautiously across the table. "Welcome home," he said more softly, as a tear or two sparkled at the corners of his eyes.

Gwindor took his hand.  "Thank you. It is good to see you, my friend."

"Will you join us?" Finduilas invited, retrieving another place setting from the sideboard to arrange on Gwindor's other side. She frowned when she noticed that Gwindor seemed not to have eaten much--he'd already been far too thin when he'd arrived.

"Absolutely, thank you. I think I may not have eaten anything since yesterday morning." Celebrimbor picked up on her dismay as he moved around the table, and gave Gwindor a long look up and down. "Huh. You had quite a time of it out there, didn’t you. Here, let me get that for you." Without further comment, he pulled Gwindor's plate in front of him, grabbed his knife and fork, and started cutting the thick slice of venison into smaller pieces.

Hot shame washed over Finduilas. She hadn't even considered that that would be difficult for Gwindor now. "Thank you," Gwindor murmured with downcast eyes, but when Celebrimbor returned his plate, he began to eat more readily.

"You’re welcome. I should go down to the kitchens later and show them some of the dishes they used to serve up at Himring. You'd be amazed what you can achieve with a little knife work in the preparation. Now you," Celebrimbor indicated Agarwaen with his fork as he began filling his own plate, "I'm sure I haven't met."

"Oh! Yes," Finduilas was really failing as a hostess today. "Celebrimbor, this is, ah, Agarwaen, son of Umarth,” she hesitated only a little over the name, “a Man whom Gwindor met in his travels. Agarwaen, this is Celebrimbor, one of our most talented smiths."

"Agarwaen," Celebrimbor rolled the name around in his mouth. "I've known plenty who could be so called. If you're one of them, at least you're honest about it."

"Hm. And you're a smith?" Agarwaen asked with a gleam of interest. "Would you know how to restore the edge of a hard-used weapon? It is a fine one and I would not see it damaged beyond repair."

"I profess to being a jewelsmith foremost, but I've done my share of maintaining the implements of war,” said Celebrimbor. "Is it this one you bear at your side? May I see it?"

Silently Agarwaen drew the sword from its sheath and handed it naked to Celebrimbor.

"Oh, sweet Aule’s hammer, would you look at that," Celebrimbor breathed as he received the sword. "That's Eol's work, I'd wager anything. See how the black metal picks up those splashes of color when the light hits it just so? The dwarves of Nogrod used to go wild over it, but that creeping recluse forbade them from selling any of it to us. I never really got to play around with it properly."  He looked up from his close examination of the blade. "Am I right?"

"I have no knowledge of the sword’s making or history, only that it was once wielded by a dear friend of mine," Agarwaen responded somberly.

"That friend once held high favor in the courts of Menegroth," Gwindor commented quietly, earning a sharp look from Agarwaen. "I do not doubt he might have been granted such a weapon."

"Can you repair it?" A note of longing crept into Agarwaen's voice. "The more Orc blood it is washed in, the easier his spirit will rest, I deem."

"It would be an honor," Celebrimbor replied, smiling viciously. "I'll be damned if I can't better the old bastard at his own craft."

 

* * *

 

It occurred to Finduilas as her mind tumbled around in the silent hours before dawn. The instant she thought of it, her eyes snapped open, she threw on last night's dress and before she knew it she was barefoot in the northeast wing, knocking on the door of Celebrimbor's room.

A minute later he opened it. "Finduilas?" He blinked and stared at her with slightly unfocused eyes. "What's happened?"

She finally took one second to think about what she was doing. She shouldn't be bothering him so early in the morning, not for this. She took a step back. "Nothing. Sorry. It's not important--it can wait."

He yawned. "It's okay, I'm awake now. What is it?"

She bit her lip. But he had asked. "I know you're busy with the sword and your other work. But--they took Gwindor's betrothal ring," she said softly.

His face filled with compassion. "Of course. Come in." He invited her into his room and acquired writing supplies from a small desk. "I think I recall the basic construction of it, but you probably remember it better than I do. The original smith is, uh, not available, I gather?"

He hadn't made it out of Minas Tirith when it fell. She shook her head.

“No matter. I’m sure I can make it up just the way it was if I ask the right questions.”

She gave him all the information he asked for. It hadn’t been a very complicated piece of jewelry, and it didn’t take long to provide all the dimensions and details--the type of silver, the shape, the inscription. “And his fingers are--about the size of mine now, maybe even a bit thinner.” She didn’t know why she should be embarrassed to share that, but something about having to say it left her feeling out of sorts.

"It can always be resized if needed," Celebrimbor assured her.

"Thank you so much for this," she repeated as she rose to leave.

"It's really no trouble. It'll be a good project to come back to any time I'm waiting on something else."

She suspected, later, that he'd actually put aside everything he could in order to get it to her only a couple days after she'd asked. As soon as she received it she ran to Gwindor's bedroom, where he'd lain down to rest earlier that afternoon. As she presented it to him, however, her satisfaction with herself melted into doubt, for a reason she could barely name. Would he find her overeager? Surely he knew she still loved him, even without any outward sign or symbol. Was she trying too hard to pretend nothing had changed? What  _ had _ changed?

Gwindor took the ring from her and held it, staring at it for long moments. "I didn't--" he started, then hesitated. "I would have--" He sighed. "I thought about you every day. I never would have made it back here without the promise of your love to guide me. Thank you, Faelivrin."

She took the ring and slipped it onto his finger and wondered why that felt like undeserved praise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to write the rest of this fic as part of National Novel Writing Month. The next update will either be next week or at the beginning of December, depending on how long it takes to edit 5000 words written over the course of 3 hours into something readable.


	16. Triangle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lead-up to and aftermath of THAT conversation. Finduilas and Gwindor have lots of angst and conflicted feelings, while Turin remains blithely oblivious.

The Black Sword of Nargothrond inspired the hearts of all who heard of his great deeds, and Finduilas was no exception. She had hope again; the fire that she’d worked desperately to keep alive for so many years, when her father thought only of secrecy and safety, when she’d believed Gwindor lost, when she hung on some days out of sheer spite, now burst into a blazing conflagration. The forces of the Enemy  _ could  _ be pushed back. Nargothrond could be made safe and prosperous, and as glorious as it had once been. 

At first, she barely noticed the way her gaze lingered ever so slightly when it caught upon the fine figure of the so-called Adanedhel. Only when she discovered a couple of the other ladies openly perusing him as he strode into the hall, whispering and giggling to each other, did she realize what it must look like. Of course it would not be seemly for her, a promised woman, to be seen enjoying the beauty of another too much. But even so, she really didn’t consider it the same thing at all. He was merely a mortal Man, who happened to have features as fine as any of the Noldor. And in any case, she could only esteem someone so much for their physical attributes alone; fortitude of character and a willingness to brave great danger for the sake of others were far more attractive traits.

Oh dear.

It was not just that she admired his valor, though. He reminded her how much she had once expected of herself. She was inspired to take up the spear again, and was pleased to find her body remembering the forms that she had learned long ago. She didn’t aspire to push herself to the level of the soldiers that now issued in ever greater numbers from Nargothrond’s narrow gates. Her father did not even arm himself for battle very often, after all. He knew that his value was in his leadership; and she also held an important responsibility in assisting him and providing support and comfort to the people of Nargothrond.

But she also knew that as safe as Agarwaen could make their lands, danger constantly threatened them. She did not intend to be useless if the worst happened and Nargothrond was laid under siege. So she set aside time every day to practice, and even encouraged some of the less battle-trained courtiers and craftspeople to do the same. 

She was hard at work rehearsing a complicated maneuver one morning, alone, sweat soaked and wild haired, when out of nowhere Agarwaen approached her in the training arena. She questioned whether she ought to be meeting with him privately while her feelings for him were so precariously uncertain. But some secret hurt in his heart left him so often melancholy that she could not deprive him of the gladness her company could bring.

“Do all princess of the Eldar fight so bravely?” he asked with a brilliant smile as she paused for breath. “My childhood was filled with stories of the prowess of Luthien, who they say feared not Angband itself. Do you hope to dare the same one day?”

Her heart ought not to flutter so, especially at the mention of that famed lover of a mortal Man. In his  _ childhood _ ? Luthien had embarked on her quest barely thirty years ago; he must be  _ so young _ . Yet his praise filled her with pride. “I do not aspire to anything as great as that,” she replied with a shake of her head. “But I would have enough skill to stand by those I love in times of need.” Love. Why did she have to say such things?

“You have probably been learning to wield that weapon for longer than I have drawn breath. I would never presume to think myself a worthy instructor. But I have seen on the field of battle lately that the Orcs are ever developing treacherous new tactics of which one must be aware. May I show you?”

She knew even in that moment that she should refuse. That though he offered in perfect innocence, it would not be in innocence that she accepted. If she truly wished to learn what he offered to teach, there were any number of the people of Nargothrond that had ridden out with him who would be capable of imparting the same knowledge.

He wanted to feel useful, though, was how she justified it to herself. He wanted to feel useful to her, because he cared for her, in his own way, and desired to know that he was doing his part to help her remain safe and protected. Surely she could control her own emotions, or at least her own actions, well enough not to deprive him of that opportunity. “Please,” she answered with a smile.

In truth, she did learn much from him that morning. Most of her training thus far had been on how to wield a spear against another spear, or against mounted opponents. Agarwaen drew his shining black sword and showed her how it could slip in past her spear’s longer reach, and how to change her guard to prevent it from doing so.

All the time they sparred, and talked, and laughed, some apprehension dwelt in the back of her mind. Something made her heart quicken that was neither the physical exertion nor her partner’s nearness. Once she realized exactly what it was, it resolved itself into a cold pit of guilt. 

She kept expecting to see Gwindor. Feared seeing him, despite having never once met him in the training ground since she’d started practicing regularly. She’d considered, every so often, inviting him to join her.  But even years since his return, she was forever ambivalent as to whether it would do him more good to have the most gentle of encouragement, or whether that would only cause him grief, and she should leave him to rest a while longer and recover at his own pace.

She knew that there was nothing that she and Agarwaen were doing now that could be considered objectively improper. But she knew as well, as surely as she knew her own name, that if Gwindor saw them together like this it would hurt him. And yet she chose to continue to practice with Agarwaen, and watched warily for an unpleasant confrontation that she hoped was unlikely to come.

* * *

Gwindor gave up on sleep and rose to stoke up the fire; the warmth sometimes helped to ease the pain in his arm, which even after so many years of recovery still flared up at a change in the weather, or overexertion or sometimes for no discernable reason at all. Naegnest had recommended herbs that would dull the pain more reliably, but they tended to set his thoughts into strange paths even in sleep, which often turned to terrors that his memory was only too ready to supply. He turned to them only when the pain became a worse torment to bear. He could scarcely believe, now, that he had traveled so many leagues through the winter-bound north when the injury was still fresh, and doubted he would have the mettle to do so again.

But in the silence of the night, when his body would not let him forget what he had become, his thoughts were ill company in any case, as he stared into the feeble flames. His eye caught the sullen gleam of the firelight reflected in the armor and weapons which had been forged for him and now lay idle in a corner of his room. He never could tell how honest he was being when he professed himself too weary still to take up the sword again. It had been years, he’d had opportunities, and there was always that voice that whispered that he was just not pushing himself enough, that if he would just try he could regain all the strength he once possessed. But he also knew that even staying too long on his feet still tired him some days, and that whenever he wrapped his hand around the hilt of the sword, he vividly remembered the terrible pain of losing the other one.

Finduilas had tried so hard to stand by him, to pretend they could be what they once were to each other. He hated to think himself prone to jealousy, and indeed jealousy did not accurately describe most of what he felt. He couldn’t bear much ill will toward Turin for being what he was, or toward Finduilas for admiring him for it. Gwindor himself could appreciate the beauty that had blossomed in the Man as he gained his full stature, and the valiance with which he defended his new home. He imagined that he might himself feel a sliver of the infatuation that had clearly captured Finduilas’s heart. 

Well if he expected new love to soothe his bruised heart then he was merely twice-damned. Anything he may have had to recommend him had been lost to Morgoth’s torments. He did not even know if what he longed for was Turin himself, or merely the return of all the same virtue that he had once possessed. No, he did not hate Turin and he did not hate Finduilas nearly as much as he hated himself for not being their equal.

But though he might wish to simply fade away and leave them to each other in happiness, something bothered him still. And no matter which way he looked at it, he still thought himself justified in worrying. Adanedhel though he might be called, Turin was mortal, and must soon pass from the world. Finduilas loved him enough already for the sorrow of losing him to sting, but it need not break her heart. 

It was rumored that Luthien had been granted leave to share in the fate of her mortal lover, to pass from the world when he did, and move on to whatever mystery awaited Men after death. As much as he was ready to relinquish any claim he had on Finduilas’s love for her own happiness, his chest tightened until he could barely breathe at the thought of her following Turin into death. It frightened him more than anything else he had endured to imagine living in a world that didn’t have her in it anymore. 

He needed to speak with her. He hoped he could do so without seeming accusatory or starting an argument. She had been solicitous in the extreme in their private conversations; she never spoke the smallest contradiction against him. Royal councils were a different matter. At those, she nearly always sided with Turin, pushing for greater boldness in arms and never meeting his eye. She seemed not to listen whenever he warned them that the more they slaughtered their way through Morgoth’s armies, the greater his wrath would come down on Nargothrond when he finally decided to retaliate. 

But this was a private matter between the two of them. He could merely inform her that he’d become aware of the change in her heart’s affections, and warn her of the dangers of loving one of the Edain in such a way. Any Elf would be a better match for her; he could think of many in Nargothrond as bold as he once was, that might suit her taste. He would gladly give one of them to her in his stead--someone who would stay by her side until the world’s end, and not leave her grieving after only a few short years.

He ran his thumb over the betrothal ring on his finger. Many times had he considered simply returning it to her and freeing her of the burden of being bound to him. But he would not have her think herself rejected, or imply that his own heart had lost one whit of its love for her. And she had so far said nothing aloud to indicate that she wished to be so freed. 

How could she not, though? He could barely bring himself to touch her any longer. He couldn’t quite say whether he didn’t want to now, or wanted to and couldn’t. All he knew was that he’d once delighted in the feel of her skin on his, in kissing her, in hearing her gasp in pleasure at his touch. And now, every time he lay his hand on her, he felt as if it would corrupt her somehow. He had left Angband, but he had not left it entirely behind him. Some of its foulness clung to him, and he feared spreading that to her. It was one more thing he could not give her.

Just once, he would speak to her, bring everything out in the open, and remind her that she put herself in a danger worse than death by giving her love too much to a mortal. And if he convinced her, received her assurance that she could think of Turin only as a friend, and she realized that it still wasn’t enough to repair her relationship with her betrothed? What then? 

He wondered idly, as he often had before, whether he should leave Nargothrond entirely. Go east, perhaps, seek out Tadhion and Ithillin, and find for himself company more suited to the person he was now. Two thoughts prevented him. If he were to think highly of himself, he could say that he still had responsibilities here, though Nargothrond seemed to have gotten along quite well in his absence and would likely continue to do so again. If he were being more honest, however, in his deepest heart he would have to admit that he was afraid. Nargothrond was a safe place, however much Turin might want to test that safety in ever more audacious sorties. Outside its borders, legions of the Enemy’s servants roved, ready to kill or capture all who travelled through their territory. If he were brave enough to journey outside these caverns, he would have no need to leave in the first place, for he would have become someone who might even be capable of regaining Finduilas’s love.

He'd grown too warm. The pain had become much more bearable, and his thoughts were turning uselessly self-indulgent. He eased himself back onto his feet, scattered the glowing embers, and returned to his bed.

* * *

Finduilas snuck out of the small southwest passage leading to the surface. She knew it would upset any number of people, her father not the least, for her to leave the safety of the caverns. But after a conversation that distressing, she needed to breathe fresh air. She only stepped just outside the door, and sat on the carved stone steps and gazed toward the western horizon and the far off sea.

She’d never said anything. She’d never done anything. Didn’t that have to count for something? What did it matter if she kept these feelings in her heart and they only ever hurt herself. Should she have schooled her behavior so exactingly that no one, not even those closest to her, might even suspect? 

Ha. Agarwaen--Turin--still didn’t suspect. She'd dropped enough hints in his direction, certainly, but she could probably tell him flat out how she felt and he would still be oblivious. She wasn’t a woman to him, not the sort that could love and be loved. She was a concept, a symbol of all he had lost, an ethereal being to be worshiped, since he had no respect for Powers he had never seen.

_ Turin _ \--her Man of many secrets. She knew the name well; over the last several years, the official correspondence from Doriath never concluded without a plea for any news of their lost fosterling. She had a vague picture of what had transpired--‘tell him all is forgiven’ was an oft-repeated line. But she knew far too little to guess why Turin did not return, when he had ever lamented his inability to find a true home. She’d love to give King Thingol the good news, but one second’s thought told her that Turin would not thank her for it, if he’d gone to so much trouble to conceal his identity.

Gwindor had known. Had he shared with her something he should not have? Breaking a confidence was not an offense she ever expected of him, and it frightened her to think that some dark emotion had driven him to it. Now that she knew, though, it would be wrong of her to pretend to Turin that she didn’t. Perhaps she could raise the subject gently. Reports said the north-lands once granted to Hador's house had been scoured by invaders from the east, coming at Morgoth’s invitation. No wonder he turned so melancholy when he spoke of his family.

Would things be different if Turin had never come to Nargothrond? She had no hope or fear of ever having Turin’s love, but with sudden apprehension she wondered if she was about to lose Gwindor’s as well. No, she consoled herself, it was not that he did not love her, he’d said as much, he just recognized that  _ her _ feelings were not the same as they once were. Would that still be the case, if she did not have this tall, beautiful and valiant man to compare to everything Gwindor once had been?

That brought her to tears as nothing today yet had. Gwindor had to know she mourned for what he had lost, what he had become, and she did not blame him for it. Would she feel the same if another had not seized her affections? Would she have tried harder to accept what he was and discover what virtue still hid within him? Or would she remain with this hollow feeling in her breast, never knowing whence it came or how to remedy it, having nothing to compare it to?

She always noticed how tense he was when she touched him. Celebrimbor said it was not uncommon in those who had survived Angband, and she accepted his knowledge was probably correct. But in her heart she always felt rejected and she didn’t know how to make herself stop. When she noticed that his mood was low, her instinct was always to hold him, touch him, kiss him, and raise his spirits like she’d once been able to. Even after so long, she couldn’t seem to find another tool to use in its place.

‘I am become unfit to wed you’. Those words had shattered her heart. She did still fear losing him, didn’t she? She still loved him enough for that. Or did she simply fear failure, that he would break their betrothal and it would cause others to think less of her? She didn’t know. Maybe she just wanted everything to go back to the way it had been. But she'd tried to pretend that absolutely nothing had changed, and Gwindor had seen right through that and wasn’t satisfied. She could control her actions even if she couldn’t control her feelings. Shouldn’t that be enough for him? 

Gwindor certainly did not have to lecture her on the folly of loving a mortal. She knew very well that in not even a century, Turin would have passed the way of his people. She was not fantasizing about marriage or some grand fated love affair. But at the same time, she couldn’t just avoid Turin. She knew that her presence and her company eased his past griefs. He’d lost family member after family member, home after home, and she couldn’t withdraw what she could give him as a friend just because she was afraid of her own heart’s desires. 

She’d tried so hard never to argue with Gwindor. Had that been a mistake? Should she have not been quite so careful of his feelings? She’d always tried to limit their disagreements to the council chamber. For the good of Nargothrond and her responsibilities as its Princess, in there she’d put her desire to spare him discomfort second to her duty to argue the opinion she genuinely thought best. That, unfortunately, always seemed to mean siding with Turin. But she knew, everyone knew, that she’d been pushing for less secrecy and greater openness in arms long before the two of them arrived. If anything, it was Turin who was siding with her. She wondered if Gwindor saw it that way. In all the time they’d been in a relationship, she’d never seen him exhibit anything resembling jealousy or possessiveness. He’d been secure in his knowledge that she loved him, and never tried to circumscribe her behavior out of fear. But now she supposed she’d given him cause, as much as she longed for it to be otherwise. 

He’d called Turin cursed, said that Morgoth had dictated a dark fate for all of Hurin’s line. She hadn’t taken much thought recently to all her mother had taught her of the Song and Fate and the Powers who held sway over the music of the world. She listened sometimes, when her father spoke of the awesome works he had personally witnessed done by the Lords of the West, the unfathomable magnitude of their ability. But could the Dark Enemy, great though his power be, truly call down such unending misfortune on one who had defied him? By chance, as it seemed, rather than by direct force of arms? As if she needed a third reason that loving Turin was a bad idea.

But she only had to hold out for a few decades, right? A few decades and Turin would go the way of all Men and she and Gwindor would have all the life of Arda to somehow rebuild what they had once had. That was what she wanted. She was sure of it. But she didn’t know now if Gwindor thought the same, or if he had been so lost to his depression that he no longer had a will to fight even for her love. Was that how she would know that she’d truly lost him?

The confusion of her thoughts seemed to have no resolution. She at least tried to make sure that she had cleared away all signs of how bitterly she had wept by the time she went inside.

* * *

Gwindor hadn’t meant to reveal Turin’s true name when he began speaking to Finduilas. He truly had intended only to confirm to her everything which they both already knew. He would like to believe he hadn’t spoken out of spite. It just seemed so plain to him that a dark destiny lay at the end of Turin’s road, and he absolutely would not allow Finduilas to be caught up in it. 

But he couldn’t totally trust his own emotions. The conversation had been more painful than he had expected. Saying out loud that he’d given up on himself, and on the two of them as a pair, stung like a physical wound. But he knew it was the right thing to do. She was so unhappy with him that her heart could be swayed by someone such as Turin, who she herself admitted did not love her in return. He did her no favors by allowing her to believe that he held her in any way bound to the promise she had once made to him. 

Even alone, an unattached woman once more, she would be better off than if she were shackled to his dead weight. Of course he would never stop doing everything he could to support her. That was what loving her meant, that he would continually work for her every happiness. And he knew, and she knew, that Turin would never bring her happiness.

He could hardly even hold ill will toward Turin himself. Turin had merely responded as anyone would to the attention of someone so lovely and good as Finduilas. And neither was the curse that Morgoth had laid on Hurin’s line his fault. Could it really be true, though, that Turin felt nothing for her in return? Well, he wouldn’t deny her judgement in the matter. To hear her tell it, Turin thought of her only as family or a very close friend. 

Gwindor didn’t know if he could truly hate someone he had worked so hard and risked so much to bring to safety, who had not wronged him in any way but by being himself. Truly this was the fate of Arda Marred, that three people who all wanted what was best for each other could hurt each other so.

Before he’d been captured, he’d never felt the need to put his faith in something larger than himself, but before he’d been captured the threats he faced had always been of a much more reasonable scale. He hadn't yet crouched unbreathing in the presence of a Vala or felt the damage that the smallest part of one’s might brought to bear could do. Now that he had, he saw things somewhat differently, and he could not find the words that would convince the rest of Nargothrond. He knew, in the depths of his soul, that force of arms would prove useless in the end. How could he explain the way he had suddenly felt safe in a way he had not for decades, only once he reached the presence of Ulmo’s blessed waters? 

Turin had felt it as well, there was no other explanation for the suddenness of his recovery at the pools of Ivrin, but perhaps the souls of Men perceived things differently. Gwindor knew now that their only hope was to protect what they valued in any way they could until the Valar were moved to pity at last. 

Was his opinion influenced by the fact that he was now useless on the field of battle? Perhaps. But it was the only one he could honestly hold, and if he was twisting his arguments in his own favor, he could not see how. He had lost essential pieces of himself in Angband, but he would truly have lost all of himself if he ever called for a course of action that would mean more danger to Finduilas. 


	17. Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finduilas soars to ever greater heights; Gwindor prepares for the worst.

“Father, may I speak with you for a moment?" Finduilas hated bothering him about something so routine but she was having trouble convincing Telhir to see things her way. "There's a little supply issue that I'd like to get resolved."

“Oh--of course, love," he replied. "Would you mind if we dealt with quickly, though? Luingolodh has been waiting for an answer on that stone shortage for the bridge. I'd hoped to get her an answer today, but there's a few things I wanted to go over one more time."

She grinned like a well-fed cat. “You don’t need to worry about that! I took care of it yesterday evening.” She allowed a note of pride to creep into her voice.

“You--you did?” he responded, looking somewhat taken aback. “What did you tell her?”

"I promised her we would send the stonecutters out to Cennambar by the end of the week. I remember the marble there being very beautiful, and there’s still quite a lot of it available since we stopped excavating regularly years ago.”

Her father frowned. “That’s true, it would be a good choice if one were thinking just of the quality of stone. But--it’s quite far afield, isn’t it, my dear? I worry that slow teams hauling stone will be vulnerable to attack.”

“Hm, I don’t think so?” she countered. "The region has been cleared out quite thoroughly, from the reports I've seen.There hasn’t been a single Orc spotted that close to the eastern border in almost half a year. And besides, Turin approved a full fifty soldier escort, so they’ll be quite well protected."

“Did he.” Her father looked troubled for some reason. “I’m very glad that you’ve been taking so much initiative lately, Finduilas, but there are some things I wish you’d come to me about. At least for final approval. This kingdom is my responsibility, in the end, and so I’d like a say in any risks we take.”

“Of course, Father. I apologize.” She brushed aside a momentary flutter of guilt. She'd rushed to find a solution as soon as she became aware of the issue, intercepting Luingolodh late last night. Thinking back, she may have implied she'd already obtained her father's full approval. 

But she'd only done it to spare her father from worrying so much about disasters that were no longer likely to befall. Nargothrond had been growing increasingly strong since Turin began leading their armed forces, and she was excited to take advantage of that in every way she could. Her father had served Nargothrond for so long in a capacity she knew was exhausting for him. He deserved a chance to rest for a while. 

”Shall I recall the expedition?” she asked somewhat reluctantly. She was sure she’d considered every side of the problem that he had, she’d just come to a different conclusion.

He sighed and shook his head. "They can go, this time, as you promised," he conceded. “I don’t mean to discourage you, Finduilas. You are growing into as fine a leader as any parent could wish their child to be. I only--well. There was something else you had on your mind? Your supply problem?”

“Yes. Our smiths report that they've started to run low on raw materials, and they still have many swords and spearheads left to craft. I thought I might just let them make use of the steel ingots that are laid up in the treasury, but Telhir insisted on getting your personal approval before he would let us touch them." She'd tried to convince the supply master every way she knew how with no success, and was reduced to begging her father for assistance. 

Her father frowned. "Are we still crafting weapons? The swordmiths have already been working long hours for months. By now I would expect all our scouts and soldiers to be extremely well outfitted."

"Well, Turin thought that if we want to hold the territory we've retaken, we ought to start training and fielding a few more people. There's just not a large enough force for what he has in mind, and those new hands will need weapons as well."

By her father's darkening expression, this request would not be simply granted like she expected. "Finduilas, who are you thinking of sending out? We still need farmers and healers and artisans here at home, and the repository in the treasury has always been kept aside for the making of tools in times of need. I don't like the idea of depleting our stores so that Turin can push our borders a few miles further out."

Finduilas sighed. She hadn't wanted to turn this into a debate. Why did she always have to prove she was right? "When the orcs were at our door and we were stuck cowering in our den, most of our farmers and crafters were forced to remain idle anyway! Only the reclaiming of our lands has given them the opportunity to work again! Do you know how many ploughs we still have in storage? We have so much farmland now that we could start making use of again, if that's what you want." She had to get through to him how much this freedom from fear could mean for everyone. "But if we arm more people, we could clear lands of evil creatures all the way out to the Falas! Can you imagine Cirdan's reaction if we told him he could move his people back into their homes in Brithombar?" What a triumph that would be--she could just see it.

"Cirdan is older and of a far more conservative mind than you are," he replied grimly, "He would, I am sure, be reluctant to trust the safety of his people to a force stretched so thin. He knows better than to think that sharp swords and strong walls are all we need to rely on."

Finduilas huffed in frustration. "Surely you at least agree that civilians ought to be armed for their own protection? Even I've tried to train myself that much."

"Yes, but if you were to propose to head the army at Turin's side you know I would have to forbid you."

She smiled as if such a thing had never occurred to her. "Of course not, that would be ludicrous. Turin is taking care of the military side of things while I see to all the other the business of running Nargothrond." She belatedly realized that that statement appeared to cut her father out of the equation all together, but he had to realize she would never mean that. Didn't he?

If she didn't bother apologizing perhaps he wouldn't notice. "So will you talk to Telhir for me?” she attempted to confirm, though their discussion was far from resolved.  “I don't think we'll need to use even half of the steel we have in the treasury, at least for now. And isn't it for the best if we have the weapons and don't use them, rather than the reverse?"

Her father sighed more deeply. "I'll approve the use of one hundred twenty ingots. That's about a quarter of what we have in the treasury. See how far you can make that stretch."

Victory! "All right," she agreed. Oh, and one more thing-- "And if you find yourself going down that direction anyway, do you think you could tell Celebrimbor that he doesn't need to think of any more methods for collapsing the bridge? I keep trying to convince him that that's not the defeatist kind of attitude we're trying to foster. But he seems to consider it a personal affront that he hasn't yet come up with a solution that will work under our current design. Perhaps you could explain it better."

"Are you sure having some sort of failsafe isn't a good idea? A way to lead soldiers out is a way to lead enemies in."

"Yes but only if they make it that far, which  Turin assures me they will not. I don't want to expend our scarce resources planning for failure."

Her father still looked skeptical. "I will talk to him." he said at last, although he didn't look wholly convinced as he bade her a half-hearted farewell and turned to leave.

It wasn’t that she didn’t respect his authority as king. It wasn’t as if the leadership of Nargothrond had been wrested from the house of Finarfin into foreign hands. 

But since she and Turin had started working together, they’d accomplished so much! Working side by side with him for the improvement of the kingdom had not been as perilous to her tender feelings as she'd expected. On the contrary, it had soothed the longing in her heart more than she had expected it to. Turin still showed no sign that he'd even noticed the spark that made her heart beat faster whenever she was near him. But his half-formed idolization of her had transformed into what she thought was genuine respect. Now he regarded her for skills she had worked hard to develop, and admired what she could accomplish with them.

She harbored a vague wish that Gwindor could have been a part of it all. But she didn’t talk to him much anymore. It had gotten to the point where they seemed to cause each other nothing but pain. He disagreed with almost every decision she made, and didn’t hesitate to speak against her in council meetings. That was nothing new, but she felt like his rhetoric was becoming harsher. Before, when he contradicted her it was with the tone of one who only wished to enlighten a loved one. Now, when the same old arguments had washed back and forth between them for years on end, he came at her almost as if she was an enemy, his words falling just short of personal attacks.

She hadn’t removed her betrothal ring yet. Neither had he. She wondered sometimes if she should, if they were lying to themselves at this point. They’d had so many good years together, once, and she hated to throw all that away. How could she let Morgoth's evil ruin something so beautiful? 

But she couldn’t see any way forward. Gwindor had lost all hope, could think of nothing but hiding in the safety of secrecy until the end came, while she had never been more hopeful. Well, no one could say she hadn’t tried to show him the glory that Turin’s incredible prowess had brought back to Nargothrond. She would have preferred to rebuild the kingdom with him, but she could do it without him if she had to.

* * *

Gwindor fled to his room as soon as Cirdan's messengers departed the hall. Another voice had finally corroborated his impotent warnings, but it gave him little comfort. Not the least due to Turin's hostile response. He needed no more confirmation that his purpose was doomed to fail from the start, if such noble travellers merited less respect than one broken former warrior.

He'd watched Finduilas try to spin the tensions between Turin and Arminas into agreement, with apologetic smiles and diplomatic rephrasings. But she ought to have rebuked Turin outright, rather than allow a guest in Nargothrond to be so vilely addressed. After all the time she spent fawning after the Man and currying his favor, if there were ever a circumstance in which she should have used her influence to rein him in, that should have been it. But no, they were ever of one mind, growing from pride into hubris. There was no use speaking to her anymore, when she found wise counsel less alluring than the promise of power she could call her own. When she had a message from Ulmo himself delivered to her, how could she not see that all their dooms drew nigh?

She didn’t understand. Fingon had once had the kind of hope she flaunted, had once believed that they had a chance of beating down the doors of Angband and taking down Morgoth by their own might. Fingon had trusted Gwindor, allowed him to fight under his banner, and now he was dead, and all the might of the Elf kingdoms with him. Even if that had not served as proof of the folly of such an assault, their numbers were now too few, and too much trust had been wrecked by betrayal, to ever have that kind of hope again.

His sword now collected dust in the space behind his writing desk, where he could usually forget about its existence. Morgoth's armies were coming, and Turin had all but sent them an invitation into Nargothrond. He'd get the glorious battle his mortal impatience longed for. Safety was no longer an option for any of them. 

He retrieved the sword from its exile, unsheathed it, tested the blade. Celebrimbor's craft was excellent; even so long neglected it was still sharp enough to slice through a hair dropped on its edge. All he'd wanted was peace, but if it was to be war--he would not be useless, and he would not be taken a second time.

He moved through each dimly remembered form, slow but with exacting precision. He took note of how his balance had changed and where he would have to make up for the lack of a second hand. By the time he finished, he was sweating even in the mild spring warmth, and he knew that in the morning he would be horribly sore. He sheathed his sword and jotted down a schedule of exercises that might fill in his areas of greatest weakness.

Yes, it would probably all be futile in the end. But he'd discovered he was not yet ready to lay down and die. And if he could protect even one other life with his own, he wanted to be prepared to do so to the best of his ability.

* * *

 

Finduillas waited as the most recent crop of soldiers filed out of the training room. She didn't have time to hone her body the way they did, with all her other responsibilities, and had no illusions that she could become as proficient as they were. She would only be intruding where she didn't belong if she tried to train with them. Nevertheless, several of them nodded their greeting to her as they walked by.

She slipped in past the last of the line and was surprised to find that two of their number had not quite finished, still engaged in an intense, lighting fast sparring match. She could hardly follow the movement of their swords as they came at each other, blocked, dodged, circled and clashed again. 

She recognized one of the combatants as Calras, a cook that Turin had recently encouraged to take on training at arms.  His opponent yanked him into a hold modified to compensate for a missing left hand; only then did she recognize Gwindor.

How long had he been coming here? He'd clearly regained much of his strength and skill already. How had she not noticed? She watched with a growing sense of pride as he fought. His style was wholly different now than it had once been. Less hurried, more concerned with putting every movement exactly where it ought to be and making it count. Captivating to watch, nonetheless.

Calras broke the hold and went back on the offensive. Gwindor tried for a complicated feint and parry but didn't quite get it all in before Calras reacted. Calras darted his sword into the opening Gwindor had left, lunged forward as Gwindor stepped back, and stopped short with the tip of his sword hovering a fraction of an inch from Gwindor's chest.

"Well done," said Gwindor, sounding somewhat out of breath, as Calras withdrew and bowed. "Thank you."

"Thank you as well, sir. It's an honor to learn from someone with your experience." Calras replied enthusiastically. The two of them moved to put away their weapons before they finally noticed Finduilas standing there.

"Your highness," said Gwindor with the barest of nods.

Titles today, was it? Well he didn't need to speak with her if he didn't want to; she would start her practice as soon as the two of them stowed their gear and left. "You both performed marvellously, and Nargothrond is lucky to have you," she said with a generous smile, for there was no need to be rude to Calras. 

“Thank you, your highness,” said Calras with a shy bob of his head. 

Finduilas lingered in the doorway as they finished packing up. Calras could obviously sense the atmosphere and knew better than to linger. Gwindor, on the other hand, stayed and watched her silently as she entered and went for her spear.

Weapon obtained, she turned and looked at him. She was truly glad to see him here, no longer a prisoner of idleness. But she delayed awkwardly as she struggled to find the right words. She’d tried to be so understanding, so patient. She wouldn’t want to imply that her support had been insincere. But she certainly thought he'd made the right decision, after all this time.

“H-how long have you—?” she began at last.

“Since the spring. Turin has ensured that our fate will be to fight. I decided I’d prefer not to make a fool of myself. I’m surprised I haven’t seen you here before now. I hear you can nearly rival Nargothrond’s veteran scouts.”

It wasn’t true, but it wasn’t said as an insult, either, so she didn’t take it as one. “I could hardly ask the citizens of Nargothrond do what I will not. I want to be able to contribute where I can.”

“Yes, as much as--well, you know my opinion on the forces we’ve been fielding.” He was against it, of course, he hadn’t agreed with Turin on anything seemingly since they first arrived. “But I do think it’s wise to have everyone armed and as trained as possible. Some of them show quite a bit of talent, Calras there has nearly surpassed me.” He showed a hair of a smile.

“You were both amazing. You’ve made so much progress, Gwindor, and I—” And suddenly nothing she could think of to say didn’t sound self-serving and manipulative. Of course she wanted him to be the person she’d betrothed herself to. She always had, and she’d suppressed that as much as possible out of pity for him and it was tearing her apart and she hated it. “I hope it brings you satisfaction.” She forced her mouth into as wide a smile as she could manage.

“I’m doing what I can. I only want the same thing you do--to see Nargothrond survive.” But there was a pain just behind his eyes that spoke of desperation.

“We’ve survived for long enough. I’d like it to thrive.”

“We can’t always get what we want, can we?”

“I know you just want to keep everyone safe. I do try to understand your perspective, but--” She took a deep breath. She would not let this turn into an argument. She took her spear to the center of the floor and started to do warm-up exercises. “Will you—” she rethought her words in the act of saying them but didn’t stop herself—”stay and practice with me?”

From the look on his face, he was genuinely considering it. “I fear I find myself at the limits of my endurance for now,” he answered instead. “Perhaps—” but then he cut himself off and shook his head, muttering something that sounded like “no need for that,” under his breath.

“That’s all right. You know I want you to take care of yourself more than anything.” Step. Block. Thrust. She tried to bury this sudden upwelling of emotions in the rhythm of the familiar moves. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff, in the dark, unable to move lest she discover the sudden drop. Her fate was turning, and she didn’t know which words to say to make it go what she wanted. She didn’t know what she wanted, and she’d thought she was close to having it all.

He didn’t answer her, but she felt his eyes on her for quite a long time before he turned and left.


	18. Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fall of Nargothrond. Everyone dies, but not before Glaurung is a right asshole whenever possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where all the Major Character Death happens. On the positive side, no named characters are confirmed dead except those that die in canon. The Graphic Depictions of Violence may get a bit more graphic than canon in this chapter.

Gwindor awoke on the day they were to meet Morgoth’s forces in the field and wondered whether he would ever do so again. He had little to lose, if he were to leave Middle-earth forever, and death was not the worst fate he would risk today. But who would be left to protect Finduilas and Nargothrond if he fell? Turin? Now that it had come to open war, he could only hope that the Man had been right to be so confident.

The feeling of doom was hard to shake. Images rose in his mind of delicate wrists and ankles wrapped in cruel iron. Of blood, of fire, of pain. Were these merely the ghosts of his previous torments? He could not forget that Cirdan had also advised against this course, and if his messengers could be believed, Ulmo himself did too. 

On a personal level, he had but one regret, if he were to meet his end. He had never stopped asking himself, these past few months, if he could have done more to win back Finduilas’s affections. Whatever she saw in Turin, he could no longer compete with it, nor did he much want to. But should he have given up altogether? After all, if he had changed, so in some ways had she.

And yet he did not ache for her one whit less. He may have occasionally disagreed with her decisions, but at her core, she was the same woman he had lost his heart to. She loved her people and did genuinely want what was best for them. And now she had acquired a confidence that made her beauty all the more radiant. If he shied from her, it was because the idea that he may have lost her entirely was too painful for him to bear.

On impulse, he pulled out pen and ink, and once he’d conceived of the opening line, the verse flowed out of him as easy and unstoppable as breathing, until he’d covered three pages with all the tender feelings of love that he’d barely acknowledged recently.

 

_Ah! what loveliness lit the lofty halls_

_Of the sole sentinel on Sirion's isle_

_The sun's bright beams on blessed waters_

_To the crown of her beauty could scarce compare_

_Gaily garlanded the golden locks_

_Fair and fragrant the frail hands_

_And yet steadfast the heart, high-held the head_

_Of the fearless offspring of Finrod's house_

_Ere fell flames poured from peaks of dread_

_Or the howls of werewolves in those halls were heard_

_Ere countless tears were cried mid the carnage_

_And he mourned the loss of life and light_

_The young warrior, whetted in weapons' use_

_Yet cowered, captivated by love's call..._

  
  


_Yours eternally, Gwindor Guilinion_ he signed his name at the end. An hour or more must have passed by the time he’d finished. He stared at the words, wondering what he hoped they would accomplish. 

Well, he’d soon be dead, as likely as not. Might as well take a final chance. He folded the pages and wrote _Finduilas Faelivrin_ on the outside. He crept silently to her room and tucked them into the crack of her door, then ghosted away.

Gwindor would have sworn he was perfectly calm, and yet he could feel himself trembling as he and Calras helped each other don their armor. Now they would discover if Turin truly had the power to throw off Morgoth’s curse on his father’s line. He would never be so glad to admit he was wrong if they somehow lived through today.

He could hold the line, he thought bitterly. He’d learned that lesson at least. 

* * *

Finduilas had lain awake for hours anticipating the start of this, the final day. When she heard footsteps outside her door, she expected a knock to follow, summoning her for one last matter that needed her urgent attention.

But when after several minutes, none had come, she decided she might as well get out of bed anyway. She chose a short hemmed dress that was easy to move in, with warm hose underneath in case she found herself out in the autumn chill. She carefully braided her hair and pinned it in a coil at the back of her head. Then she grabbed the small pile of wax-sealed correspondence she’d finished the previous night and headed out to see that everyone was ready to fulfill their assigned duties.

When she opened the door, a folded bundle of papers fluttered to the floor. She picked them up and was assaulted with a stab of nostalgia when she turned them over and saw them addressed to her in Gwindor’s handwriting. She bit her lip, then tucked the papers into her pocket. She really didn’t have time for the feelings that those words were likely to provoke right now. If he had important news related to the business of the day, he could tell her himself or send a messenger. Perhaps she’d pull them out if she had a quiet moment to herself later on.

She found Celebrimbor dressed and ready to travel in the entrance hall. “Thank you so much for doing this,” she told him. Her father had been the one to suggest sending him as the leader of the small group of messengers going south to inform Cirdan of what they planned to do today. If the worst was to happen, at least one trusted relation would be left to stay by Rodnor’s side.

"I am hardly the one risking the most today,” he replied. “May your skill serve you well.” She handed him the letters she had written to Rodnor, Cirdan, and a few others she hoped he would find at Balar or nearby, as well as those that she hoped could be sent along to Doriath. He added them to the satchel that had been stuffed full of anything that any of Nargothrond’s citizens had wanted to send along to distant friends and relations if this was to be their last chance.

She was so proud of everyone who had come together to make this happen. She included herself in that number, but without the loyal, hardworking citizens of Nargothrond, she never would have been able to accomplish all this.

She rushed from room to room checking one last time that all was prepared for any eventuality. She had full confidence that the day would end with their warriors returning in glory, but if they needed to fall back, or required aid (or, she could not quite ignore, the residents of Nargothrond were left to their own defense), those who remained would have many resources ready for them.

Her heart ached as she watched her father stand before the gate. He looked truly resplendent in the shaft of early morning sun that lanced through the opening gates. Golden haired and mail clad and sword girt, he looked from every angle a king. Part of her wished he didn’t have to go out with the main force. But she understood why he wanted to be seen leading Nargothrond's army, and she couldn't call it the wrong decision. Turin's leadership had brought them this far, but today the army of Nargothrond needed its king.

A heavy hand on her shoulder made her turn. “The day has come,” Turin declared with a grim smile. “We’ll drive them out for good,” he asserted, with chin-raised confidence. “Nargothrond will be safe for you from now on. And afterward we push northward, and from then who can say?”

Who indeed. Could success today be the seed that would flower into ultimate victory over Morgoth? The thought excited her, certainly. But even she could see that this morning Turin appeared as one fey.

"I will pray for your safe return," she told him.

He looked at her then, with the intense gaze that never failed to make her heart flutter, and took her by the hand. He raised it and peered at it, then blinked and then his brows knit as if he'd had a sudden realization. Finduilas dared not breathe as he raised her hand to his lips and, with deliberation, kissed it.

One of the captains was calling his name. He raised a hand in impatient answer. "I will speak with you when I return," he told her, voice trembling. Then he turned and answered the insistent summons.

Oh no. Oh no. The one thing that had been keeping her safe was her knowledge that Turin did not return her affections. That had been her fence, the shield she hid her heart behind. What could she do now?

She could put it out of her mind. Now was hardly the time. Nargothrond needed her, and she would give its protection her full attention. She would have plenty of time to think about all of that later.

She wanted to give one last goodbye to her father, and her heart sank as she turned to see him across the room, talking to Gwindor. She hesitated. It would break her heart to send her father off to battle without giving him her love. But she couldn't possibly--not now--not after--. She backed away into the gathering crowd, hoping that he wouldn't notice her. Gwindor was probably wondering whether she'd already read what he'd written her, anyway, and how could she tell him she hadn’t?

But was she going to let _him_ leave without so much as a word from her, too? It seemed cowardly and cruel. She was strong enough to at least give him something. She steeled her nerve and walked forward.

"Father," she said first. And suddenly she was choked with tears as the full weight of what they were about to attempt slammed into her. This could be the last time she saw him. She hated to give any indication that she did not have full confidence in their victory, but at this moment, she faltered. “Please be safe—” Why was this so _hard_?

“I can but ask the same of you,” her father replied tenderly, and pulled her into his arms. “By the mercy of the Valar, if any yet remains for us, we will meet our fate, whatever it may be. I would do anything if it meant you at least would be protected.”

“Please, I can’t lose you,” she begged. Where was this coming from? She ought to be confident. Turin had been so sure.

“I will do all in my power to return to you safely,” her father assured her. Which only made her cry harder. Didn’t she know how meaningless such promises could be?

Finally she stepped back and wiped her eyes. “I will be here awaiting your return,” she responded.

“Did you get all your letters to Celebrimbor?” her father asked.

“I did. Someone will know what happened, at least.” She sniffed, took a shuddering breath. She couldn’t politely ignore Gwindor much longer. She turned and looked up at him. “I--wish you luck as well,” she started hesitantly.

He gently brushed the tears from her cheek with a gloved hand. The look he gave her was one of such longing that in the moment she was wholly taken in, and she wondered how she could have ever resisted it. Then she remembered she had felt much the same not five minutes ago with another, and wondered how she could live with herself. “I wish with all my heart it had not come to this,” he said.

“I know.” He'd never wanted another great battle, and suddenly she began to wonder if he was right.

“I will do all I can to ensure you have nothing to fear.”

“Please take care of yourself.” She reached out to lay a caring hand on him, but any place he would actually feel it seemed--too intimate, and how pathetic was that, for the person she was still betrothed to. She drew back. “I should--make sure that--um--there’s just so many things that--you know—”

He nodded. She fled.

* * *

Every Orc Gwindor slew was one that could not harm his beloved. Every wolf that fell would never reach Nargothrond. He threw himself into the flow of it. Don’t think about the love that may no longer be yours even if you win the day. Don’t think about the useless, withered arm that never stopped aching. Don’t think about the damned _dragon_. This was his fate, and he would fulfill it.

He caught glimpses of Turin, roaming across the whole width of the field between the two rivers as if he were its undisputed master. His reputation was well earned; he truly was magnificent to see in a fight. At least if you were on his side. To his enemies he was a terror in his armor and dwarf-mask. Orcs fled before him as he stabbed them in the back by the dozens. He was a force of nature, beautiful like a storm over the sea.

Gwindor, for his part, did his best to stick close to Orodreth. He had no illusions which of the two of them Finduilas would be more happy to see returning through the gates of Nargothrond, and if he could die protecting his king, it would be a good death. But the task he'd set himself was not an easy one. This wolf in front of him, for instance, had half its guts hanging free of its belly and it was _still coming_. He fell back, and back, and blocked a flanking Orc’s incoming thrust and followed through with his sword in its eye. Fended the wolf off again with a kick to the throat and finally punched through its ribs to pierce its heart.

The are around him temporarily cleared, he paused to catch his breath. With the battle as closely packed and confused as it was, he was really starting to miss having an off-hand weapon. The worst of the fighting seemed to have drifted away from him, and he walked, but did not run, to rejoin it. 

He surveyed the field. The standard bearer was _there_ , and a few Elves were trying to rally that direction but they were struggling. Orodreth was still in the thick of things, barely visible amid waves of Orcs. Gwindor searched for the quickest path to him, but found nothing promising. He resolved to force his way through just in time to see the great golden worm snatch Orodreth up in its jaws, shake its spiked head back and forth a few times, then fling him across the battlefield.

Gwindor had no real hope after that, but began to fight his way to where Orodreth had landed regardless. He would not have it said that didn’t make the attempt. The dragon had moved on, wilting Nargothrond’s troops by the handful with the fearsome heat of its breath. Gwindor ploughed through ranks of Orcs with recklessness born of despair. He got to the place where he thought he ought to find his king, and scanned the ground, never looking in one direction too long lest he be taken unaware.

On one pass, he caught sight of the dragon again, and before he could look away the beast fixed him with its malevolent eye. **_Greetings, Gwindor son of Guilin. We have missed your company. Well you have learned that it would have been better had you never left us._ ** He suddenly could see only the dim, crowded cave, could feel only the hard stone bed on old lash wounds. Could hear only moans of anguish and smell only the press of slowly dying bodies. **_You crawled back to your cave dragging its ruin behind you. Yet Morgoth can be merciful! We will gladly welcome your return. And mayhap this time you will not have to leave your lady love behind!_ **

That threat was enough to break the spell, but before he took the first step, a blinding pain erupted in his belly. A dying Orc had thrust up its sword and plunged it through a crack in his armor. Gwindor planted his own sword in the thing’s neck, making good on one last kill as he staggered and fell forward. The jagged Orc weapon ripped at his insides as it slid free out of the Orc’s limp hand. When he dropped to his knees, he found Orodreth at last, ten feet away, his mutilated body barely in one piece.

No more chances, then. He wouldn’t recover from this, he could feel the life’s blood flowing out of him. He’d done his best and it hadn’t been good enough. If ever he and Finduilas had had the kind of deep soul-connection that spouses sometimes did, they had surely lost it long ago as ill feelings built up the callus between them. But he called out to her in his heart nevertheless. _Run, run while you still can! Get out, hide yourself! Don’t let them take you alive!_

He watched from the ground as Morgoth’s army regrouped and began to turn ponderously south, the dragon in the lead. There was no one left to stop them; they ignored or casually cut down those few who still stood.

Someone was calling his name. He had enough strength to raise his head and turn toward the sound, though had to push through a mountain pain to do so. Turin was charging toward him, yelling in anguish. Oh, that _idiot—_

* * *

Finduilas could tell it was bad news as soon as the scout approached her. “They’re coming. I don’t know how many of them our forces were able to take out, before— but they weren’t able to stop them and they’re coming fast. There’s so _many_ of them...”

Finduilas nodded, an eerie calm taking her. More than one person that she loved now likely lay dead on the northern battlefield, and she herself was in mounting danger. But she’d planned for this, had put weeks of effort into preparations. Now there were no decisions left to make. She held out her hand to the woman next to her, who handed her the spear she had left to rest on the wall beside her. “We’ll start the evacuation. How long do you think we have before the enemy arrives?”

“Not more than an hour.”

Well then that was what she had to work with. “We won’t be able to get the whole population out," she said in as steady a voice as she could manage, "but we can give the most vulnerable a head start. The ones who’ve trained to fight will stay behind and give them as much time as possible to get away.”

She dispatched her previously chosen assistants to organize the evacuation. The strongest among those staying behind hauled whatever they could from adjoining rooms to form a haphazard barricade in front of the front gate. Every second they could delay the incoming army might be one more life saved. At the advice of an older and more experienced Elf, she gathered the most talented bravest fighters together with her just inside the entrance, while small groups of others fell back to narrow places that they might have some hope of holding.

“I’m glad I’m not just...waiting for them,” said a woman who six months ago had never held anything sharper than a sewing needle. “I’m glad there’s something I can do.” Perhaps that was all that mattered--the joy or fear or satisfaction you experienced in your last moments.

The sounds of an enormous, raucous host began to be audible outside.  Finduilas and those beside her straightened into ready stances. She wondered suddenly if it would be difficult to kill something that looked so much like an Elf. She wondered why she’d never asked Gwindor that before.

The ground began to shake with a rhythmic beat, bringing their doom nearer with every heartbeat. Something huge crashed against the doors. The doors held, the first time, but visibly buckled inward. With the second blow, they shattered into pieces that flew toward her gathered warriors, who did not all manage to flinch out of the way in time.

If Fingon had ever attended a party without being asked to tell the tale of how he’d routed Morgoth’s gilded beast, she couldn’t remember it. They said it grew in every retelling. Now it was as tall, long neck outstretched, as the great gates had been moments before, and nearly as broad. It shouldered its way through the opening as Orcs milled about it like scurrying mice, rocking the ground with every footstep. 

Finduilas’s spear tumbled from numb hands. She didn’t even have the capacity to feel ashamed; no one among them could stand before that monster and hope to delay it even one whit. “Run!” she ordered her warriors, tearing her throat to shout louder than she thought she was able. “ _Run_!” She could save more lives getting them out now than she could if she made them stand and fight. There was no question of sacrificing a few to save the rest; they would all live or die together.

Not everyone mastered their terror in time to move before dragon’s claws or Orcs’ swords reached them. Finduilas herded as many as she could out the south doors while constantly dodging out of the enemy’s reach. She tried to coordinate the movement of the group toward the southeast gate, but she couldn’t keep track of everyone in the chaos. People who had lived in these caves their entire lives scattered in every direction, following some impulse that Finduilas couldn’t predict. She spent precious seconds whenever she could calling out to the teams farther back to get out as fast as they could.

She hurtled around a corner after one such attempt to discover that she had lost what few companions she'd still had. She could hear footsteps both ahead of and behind her and couldn’t immediately tell whether they were friend or foe. She decided that if she considered herself to have any value as a leader to her people, it was time to prioritize getting herself out, and sprinted directly for the exit. 

They’d gotten ahead of her somehow. She reached a crossway to find a pair of orcs ambling toward her from the left. She had an instant to decide whether to turn around and find another way out, or try to run past and hope they couldn’t catch her. They didn't seem to be paying much attention, so she chose to surge forward with renewed speed.

She heard their grunts of surprise as she passed, and their footsteps behind her as they gave chase. She couldn’t be more than a couple hundred feet from the gate. She ignored the burning in her lungs and ran _faster_ , thinking of nothing but the way to safety.

But a scream from down a nearby corridor made her look back--it was an instinct she couldn’t ignore, decades of training in attending to her people’s every need--and it was all the opening her pursuers needed. She didn’t even have a chance to decide whether to stop to help the Elf she could see being roughly held by Orcs in a side passage. As soon as she let up the smallest bit, they were upon her. 

A hand around her arm stopped her short so quickly she nearly dislocated her shoulder. She struggled, because she could hardly imagine doing anything else, but her efforts were futile in the face of the Orc’s implacable strength. 

As much as she hated giving up, fighting was only hurting herself and wearing her out. She resorted to merely stumbling sullenly along beside her captor while she attempted to formulate a plan of escape. They seemed to be bringing her back to the entrance hall. The doors were wide open, at least. Her way out would be impeded only by a presumably uncountable number of enemies between her and freedom. She didn’t know what if anything they could be bribed with, or what kind of ruse they would fall for. Perhaps she would just have to watch for an opportunity and be ready to take it as soon as it presented itself.

The Orcs dragged her into the hall. The dragon still waited there; she could hardly imagine it fitting though many of the corridors of Nargothrond. The Orcs said something in their foul language, and the dragon turned its head toward them. When she met its gaze, a chill washed over her and she could feel her determination ebbing away.

“ **_Princess, Princess_ ** _!_ ” the dragon said with a voice like a landslide. She didn’t know if the voice was in her ears or in her mind, but she understood the words all the same. _“_ **_You’ve worked so hard to make your palace inviting to one such as me. I do thank you for your kind hospitality_ ** _._ ” The beast lumbered toward her and, with unexpected grace, stroked her scalp with a single gleaming claw bigger than her entire hand. “ **_These pretty golden heads are so rare, and so fragile. You hardly bite them at all and they fall right off._ ** **”** She knew  it was only doing this to see her reaction, make her afraid, make her angry. But her mind insisted on showing her in vivid detail, how the dragon might have knowledge of such a thing. Shutting her eyes wouldn’t make the image go away, though she tried.

“ **_As much as I’d like to add you to my horde, keeping Elves as pets gets tiresome quickly. They need so much looking after. There is much more durable treasure here, I’m sure, that will distract me soon enough. Though perhaps I shall just—_ **” The dragon flicked its claw and Finduilas involuntarily cried out as it severed a huge chunk of her hair and wrapped it in its massive grip. It rumbled something and tossed its head toward the door, which the Orcs must have understood as a command, for they marched her outside as the dragon ambled deeper into Nargothrond.

* * *

Gwindor had survived this, and so could she. Gwindor had survived this, and _so could she_ , she repeated to herself as she trudged along the northward road. Gwindor had survived and even escaped, and she regretted every kindness she had withheld from him out of disdain for what she'd considered his weakness. 

They had been walking for most of two days, stopping only for a few hours when the sun was at its highest. Her feet hurt, her muscles ached. Didn’t Orcs need to rest? In their rough clothing and armor, they did not seem to notice most terrain hazards, and marched their prisoners straight through thickets and hedges; her dress had become a tattered mess and her arms were covered with shallow scrapes and scratches. Her hands had been rubbed raw to bleeding by the rough ropes that bound them in front of her. The pain was now a constant note in her consciousness.

Her only other choice, of course, was to stop and probably let them kill her. She wasn’t ready to do that yet. 

They made a perfunctory effort to let everyone drink whenever they crossed a small stream, but they hadn’t yet been given anything to eat and hunger was beginning to make it hard to think straight. The dragon with its malicious words had enraptured Turin until he couldn’t hear her crying out to him. She couldn’t hear what the beast had said, but it had been able to read her worst fears directly out of her heart--and she knew Turin had plenty of those. She almost worried for _him_ , almost felt guilty that he would enter Nargothrond and look for her and she would be here instead, miles away, having let herself get dragged off by Orcs.

She could still feel Gwindor's letter crinkling in her pocket with every step. She  never had taken the time to read the last words he'd written to her. She could probably have fished the papers out with enough effort, but she didn't want to risk drawing attention to them only to have them cruelly snatched away. She took comfort in having something of his to carry with her.

They had exited the plains and were starting to see the beginnings of forest spring up around them. Finduilas wondered if they were near Brethil already. It was amazing how fast one could travel when one had no other choice, she supposed. The sound of a hunting horn in the distance brought the Orcs to a halt, and they began discussing something furiously with each other. Growls quickly turned to shouts and then to shoving, which she and the other prisoners did their best to stay out of. Eventually they seemed to reach some sort of consensus, and herded the prisoners into a group behind them while they formed up into loose ranks. Moments later, a large force of armed Men smashed into them and began to lay on the attack.

If this was not the opportunity she had been looking for, it was close enough. They were not completely unguarded; she would have to deal with the few Orcs still watching over them before they could escape. She needed to free her hands, if at all possible, and maybe even procure a weapon. 

Calras nudged her and showed her with a subtle wave that he’d worked his bonds somewhat loose, his wrists oozing blood much like hers were. She nodded, mind churning for a way to take advantage of that. Something caught her eye--she toed at the leaves littering the ground until she uncovered an old, rusted  arrowhead. Perfect. 

She got Calras's attention and tapped the arrowhead with her foot. Together they keenly observed all the guards until they were fairly certain of a second they were not being watched, then he quickly squatted down, retrieved it, and stood up again.

He moved in close and began to cut at Finduilas’s bonds first, being easier to reach than his own. The small blade was not the sharpest anymore but after a minute of surreptitious sawing they were making obvious progress. Their minders seemed more interested in watching the fight than the prisoners, and ignored them as long as they didn’t make any obviously aggressive movements. Finally Finduilas felt the rope loosen, then break and fall away. The fresh air on her wrists introduced a whole new sting, but she blocked it out as she took the arrowhead from Calras and returned the favor. Once she finished, she handed it back to him and indicated that he should do the same for as many of the others as possible.

Going toward the thickest part of the fighting unarmed would be dangerous; she looked for a weapon she could grab first. Not five feet away, a Man ran a spear-wielding Orc through with his sword, then strode past her without acknowledgement. Finduilas darted forward and retrieved the Orc’s weapon. The haft was thicker and rougher than she was used to, but she thought she could stick the point in an enemy even so.

Behind her, her fellow Elves had been untied and some of them had decided to make their escape attempt. The Orcs had finally noticed this, and everything had started to dissolve into chaos. She saw one Orc grabbing at an Elf and charged toward it. Now she was finally going to prove whether all her previous training had been worth anything, or was only a silly game a Princess played to feel useful. The orc at least took her seriously as a threat, releasing the Elf from its grasp and giving Finuilas its full attention. It bore a spear of its own, which it swung in a wide arc toward Finduilas’s legs.

Her body, it turned out, knew what to do. The first block came easy, though the force of the connection jarred her to her teeth and made every accumulated wound flash with pain. She stopped the spear’s progress and deflected it upward. She followed through immediately as she’d practiced; the point of her spear connected with the Orc’s torso but glanced off mail and leather. The next attack was aimed for her head; she barely pushed it aside in time and lost a few more strands of hair. She swung the butt end of her spear around into the Orc’s arm as hard as her muscles would let her, and then harder than that. She connected with a surprisingly loud crunch, and the orc bellowed in pain and staggered backward.

She didn’t think about what she ought to do next; it wasn’t even a choice. She flipped her spear around and rammed it straight into the Orc’s neck. After a second’s stunned pause, she jerked it free before the weight of the Orc’s falling body could tear her weapon from her hands.

So that was it. She’d killed her first enemy. She couldn’t figure out how to feel about it just now. Everything was hopelessly mixed up, Men and Orcs and Elves pressed together in one tumultuous melee. She blinked and another Orc was running straight at her. She raised her spear and readied it in its direction. The Orc was empty handed, for now, but seemed to think that taking the weapon out of her own hands was a good start. It ducked around her first thrust and grasped the shaft of her spear with both hands. It was so much bigger than her, so immensely strong. With a twist of its arms it ripped the spear straight out of her hands.

She backpedaled but a tree arrested her movement after only a couple of steps. Without a weapon the best thing she could do was run, at least stay out of danger until she could find another one. But she scanned the milling crowd one more time to see if she could run in the direction of someone who needed help that she could give.

The pain of the spear piercing her belly was the worst she had ever experienced, but it redoubled into jarring agony when the point thudded into the tree behind her. When for a moment she could focus her eyes again, the Orc in front of her was already dropping to the ground, its throat slit by a Man’s knife. She wrapped her hands around the haft of the spear, but every movement made the pain worse and she barely had the strength to close her grip, much less work it free.

It didn't matter. She’d done her best and it hadn’t been nearly enough. They all had, hadn't they? But Gwindor hadn’t been able to protect her. Turin hadn’t been able to protect her. She hadn’t even been able to protect herself. She hoped at least some of her people had been able to get away. She hoped Rodnor was still safe at Balar, that Celebrimbor had delivered her messages. 

Turin--Turin would be looking for her, wouldn’t he? Once the dragon let him go. The Man with the knife was approaching her cautiously. Even breathing hurt more than she could bear, but she had to tell someone. He would be trying to find her. She had to…

  
  



	19. Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death is not the end. Finduilas and Gwindor enter the Halls of Mandos.

Chapter 19: Spirit

 

She feels the call as soon as her spirit breaks free of her ruined body. Turning to it is as easy and instinctive as a newborn turning to its mother’s warmth. There is a rushing, a sensation of movement, but it doesn’t feel like crossing endless miles of land and ocean. 

After what seems only a few moments, she is engulfed in the presence of something immensely, unfathomably larger and more powerful than herself. She would kneel, if she still had a body, but her spirit has no parts she can find that move around or arrange themselves that way. So she simply curls in on herself, trying to shrink down as small as possible.

The vast presence nudges at her until she reluctantly turns to acknowledge it. Souls have no need for words; her whole being fills with the concept of  _ welcome _ , and  _ you are safe _ , and  _ we will help you _ .

Help her? No.  _ Fix  _ her. Suddenly her dreamlike consciousness is crowded with the memory of every choice she’d ever made. And the motives behind them, the true ones, stripped of all self-deception. And the consequences of them, the ones she knew about, the ones she tried to ignore, and the ones she couldn’t possibly have learned of or foreseen.

It looks ugly to her heart's eye. She now has the perspective to see how many of her choices were more selfish than she’d realized, more determined to prop up her own ego. She so often exaggerated the benefits, and minimized and ignored the harm her actions produced. She hastened the destruction of her home and her people because she thought it would impress someone whose love she desired.

The presence turns her somehow, and her perspective shifts. She sees the passage of time as it might have been, a many-tendriled tree of possibility. The images glance through her like the facets of a jewel reflecting the light. Over and over again, the end is the same. One way or another, Morgoth’s armies would have come for them eventually and they would have been too powerful to resist.

 She may have hastened the fall of Nargothrond, but she did not cause it. The best choices of any of them would not have preserved it for so much as another century.And if things had not gone as they did, many fates would have been changed in subtle ways. She understands just a little, now, how all the melodies and harmonies fit together, and that she is only a small part of it.

Still, she has her regrets, and she thinks with enough introspection she might tease out some of where she had gone wrong. Surely she will be able to discern, with time, those faults of personality that led to her mistakes, and change them 8nto something better while still remaining, essentially, herself.

You will have time, the presence tells her, as much as you need to heal and to grow. You hardly need my encouragement to want to better yourself, and that is a fine start. But beware! Not all changes can be made by the will of the spirit alone. Come back to me when you think you are ready, and we will see whether it is the right time for you to walk in the flesh again.

The presence fades in intensity, although it never entirely disappears, but remains suffused into the background, ever present. But removed from its overwhelming grandeur, she begins to be aware of countless other selves swirling around her. The barrier between  _ her _ and  _ not her _ is inviolable if she wills it, and with it fully in force, she cannot tell anything about the others except their nature as minds not her own. But she finds she can blur the shell she’s built around herself, and senses the ones that are similarly open more deeply as they pass. Thoughts, feelings, bits of memory ripple over her wherever one of them touches with her, and she can only assume that they can feel the same from her.

Near and far are incoherent concepts in these Halls, but she cannot sense every receptive spirit at once. She does not at first understand why some spirits feel just at hand, while others take more effort to reach. But with a little testing she learns how spirits attune to one another, until their similar nature allows them to naturally pool together, the way a divot in the ground collects rainwater. 

She had people, once, that she loved. If she reaches out, might she—? One at least she knows must be here. She’s had a hole inside her for decades that she could never fill, though she built the rest of herself up around the lack as well as she could. The one who held her, nurtured her, and finally sacrificed her life for so many’s sake. 

She stops and draws back. What has she really accomplished in comparison? Did any of the skills she tried so hard to acquire make much difference in the end? She did her best to evacuate her people, but so many had been captured. She tried to free them when she had the chance, but she killed one orc, and then she’d been stabbed--

She’d been stabbed—

She’d been stabbed—

She’d been stabbed—

A tendril of the presence that suffuses the environment nudges her, and she is no longer locked in the memory of her final moments. That last agonizing record of her physical existence, the liminal edge where pain overwhelmed her before ceasing entirely, seems to have a disproportionate gravity to it, where she is in danger of getting stuck if she is not careful. The despondent spiral of her thoughts has been interrupted as well. The one she seeks would never judge her so harshly. She fills her spirit with every image and understanding and memory she can of the presence she longed for. _ Mother, Mother, Mother… _

And she is here and Finduilas feels her, open and inviting. She relaxes her own barriers in return and sinks into the blissful sea of warmth and love. And the spirit that envelops her is not alone, but has brought another with her as well.  _ Father, father! _

He is more hesitant, newer and more unsure. More apologetic, when he bleeds into the two of them. But his love is just as pure and good and Finduilas leaves herself wide open to him as well. By and by, he embraces her in turn.

Thoughts and feelings flow between the three of them, the cores of themselves floating in a whirling cloud of impressions and memories. After revelling in the ever-shifting sensation of love and acceptance and  _ family _ , a question burbles up from the corner of the triangle that is Finduilas. This is not their whole family. Part of them is missing.

If her brother is here, the answer reflects back at her, they have not found him. And her mother, a veteran by now of this strange experience, always has a part of her spirit out searching for those she loves. It may be he still lives, back in Middle-earth, fighting against the forces of Morgoth. They worry for him, collectively, but are glad to think he has survived.

Time is not a coherent concept in the Halls either. She acts at the speed of thought, and might get caught up for the length of many, many thoughts in a pleasurable emotion or a focus-consuming task. Secure in her parent’s unconditional love, she basks for uncounted ages in utter contentment. But in due course the infancy of her spirit comes to a close. She knew others once, loved others. Her woman's heart leaps, reaches out-- 

For a moment she touches him, but fear immediately overcomes her joy; she retreats and closes herself again. Not yet. All her guilt and dissatisfaction with herself is wrapped up in that relationship. She wronged him so terribly, and made excuse after excuse for herself and the one who’d she’d allowed to capture her affection. At least here she is perfectly safe from such distractions. As much as the thought pains her spirit, no mortal can ever find her here.

But is her dear one even here either? She focuses very hesitantly on the love she once felt for him, the flickering flamelet beside her family’s warm ember. She recalls him as he was both the first time she saw him, and the last. There— The instant she senses him, she locks herself away from him once more. He  _ is _ here. No matter how much he has changed, if he went out on the battlefield at all she can’t imagine that he would choose to live if he could protect her father instead.

She can’t let him see her, not yet. Melding with him, with the same easy intimacy she’s fallen with her parents, is unbearable to consider. All the parts of her that have hurt him are still in there. She needs to fix them before she can be allowed to touch him.

She's still sharing all of this with her parents. Her mother pushes to her the feeling of a gentle caress. Show me, she requests, what it is you hate about yourself so much. Let me help.

Reluctantly, she does so. She still craves her mother’s good opinion, but trusts her as well. She pours out to her parents all the memories her mother missed in the time they had been apart. She doesn't omit the parts that are shameful to her, or even the parts that she would normally consider private, even from a parent. The way it felt when Gwindor had kissed her, the times she’d touched herself with Turin in her mind’s eye. Her father grumbles and winces at her sharing so much, but her mother takes it all in stride.

Both of them help her gently fill and scrape and mold herself into something she is more proud of. Soon, there are times when she is able to do the same for them, pointing out places where she agrees they may improve and offering her own suggestions. She sees both of their deaths, each as gruesome as her own, and helps pull them back from the worst, most all-consuming memories when they need it.

Every so often their little trio is visited by some other soul known to a greater or lesser degree by one or two or all three of them. Often these meetings are joyous, and they while away a stretch of rejoicing in another’s company before that one is ready to move on. On one or two occasions, they meet with someone whose company is painful to one of their number, and those they shy away from melding with. One of the three of them might break almost entirely away, if they still want to commune with the visitor, but never for long. 

Once they happen upon a spirit dark with loathing for itself and everyone around it. The instant she recognizes it as the one who seduced her father and attempted to take over his kingdom, her entire being erupts into white hot rage. She draws her father wholly into herself and closes them off from the offender, thrusting him violently away. The Halls themselves seem apologetic about letting that one happen by, afterward

Almost imperceptibly at first, her parents begin to pull away from her. They feel satisfied with who they have become, and don’t think they will make any more progress in an unembodied state. They make the suggestion to her as gently as they can. If she isn’t quite ready yet to leave herself, does she think she can get along without them for a little while? Surely, for as much as she’d shared unrestrainedly with them, there is progress to be made that would be easier to do by herself, or with another friend? They have several frequent visitors by now, both people they knew in life and those they hope to lay eyes on for the first time on the other side. And of course the Lord of this place is always available for help or counsel if one is willing to endure the rather terrifying ordeal of having his attention.

She understands. She agrees. They promise her they will make everything ready for her when she comes home. They remove themselves from her, although she  still senses them melded tightly to each other. Then, after another immeasurable wait, they seem to vanish altogether, presumably whisked off to the realm of the living.

It's really only a matter of sanding down some rough edges, after they leave. Little flaws that she couldn’t quite get a good angle on, while they still enveloped her with their love and she didn’t quite have her mind to herself. As expected, she is far from lonely without them, but now solitude is the rule, rather than the exception, and it helps her see the true shape of herself. She puts the finishing touches on who she wants to be.

A lack of self-deception is a big part of what she has been working on, so when she is very, very sure she sees nothing more she wanted to change, she nervously pokes at the immense presence lurking in the background, and tells him that she thinks she is ready to go.

He overshadows her with his vast power and beams his approval at her. He is so proud of the improvement she’s been able to make, and she reflects gladness and gratitude in return. She certainly has his permission to move on if she thinks she is ready. He impresses upon her that without a brain to record her thoughts and feelings, she won’t clearly remember all that she has done and felt as merely a spirit. In addition, many emotions and desires have a strong component that is of the body, so there is some healing and growth that can only be done within the body. 

She understands. She is ready.

He invites her to choose one from among those living in the realm of the Valar who she wishes to meet her when she awakens.

Her parents, she answers immediately, for a part of her has never stopped missing the warm love they shared here.

Just one, he admonished her.

It doesn’t really matter, she supposes, for of course they will both come if one is summoned. Her father, she decides finally. With the slightest apprehension, she wonders how long it will take, what reacquiring a body  _ feels  _ like--

She opened her eyes.  
  


* * *

 

He clings to his body until it utterly rejects him. And even then, as soon as his spirit is cut free he looks first to the south, to Nargothrond. But a dark presence to the north hungers for him and will catch him if he lingers.

He accepts the call, and finds himself overshadowed by something so immense it can only be a Vala. He remembers how once he trembled in the majesty of a power awesome enough to obliterate him with a thought, and for a moment he doubts himself. He has exhorted others to trust the Valar, but his faith in the peace he’d felt beside sacred waters now seems very far away.

The instant the thought occurs to him, that same peace fills him, stronger than ever.  He is safe. He is protected. Morgoth has no power here.

He has the impression of being examined from every angle. All his struggles and regrets and triumphs and mistakes are pulled to the surface, first one by one, then faster and faster until they pile on top of each other and he is the sum of every decision he’s ever made.

No longer mired within time, and able to see the outcomes of some of his choices, he is capable of having some compassion for himself. He has survived depths of torment, and come out of it still willing to help those he loves. He tried to do right by Finduilas, even if he didn’t always know what that meant. When he realized how much Nargothrond needed him, he didn’t shirk his duty. He sees glimpses of the story as it unfolded after he left it. They failed utterly. Nargothrond fell to the dragon and its army with hardly a protest. Everything he feared came to pass. 

But he sees, finally, that the failure does not lay within himself. Some fates are inevitable, and he had the misfortune to get caught up in Turin’s. He professed regret in bringing the Man into Nargothrond, before he died. But would he really have abandoned him, witless, in an Orc-infested forest? Does he wish he were the kind of person who would have?

No. If are were things he wishes to change, his capacity for kindness was not one of them. The Vala in whose presence he is suspended radiates approval. He is invited to stay and heal from death and the torment he endured.

He supposes that living in the Blessed Realm, where the Valar reigned in peace, the pains and terrors that tormented him will have no purpose. Morgoth will never again be allowed to wreak his torments here. Right? He receives a wash of confirmation from the presence that now fades into the background, never entirely disappearing. So the fears and flinches he has built up are no longer necessary. He needs to find some way to let them go.

He can sense innumerable other spirits passing by him, as if they are both there and not there at the same time. Which souls will keep him company in death, and which must he hurry along to life in order to find? His first thought is as ever for Finduilas. He wishes above all that she is safe, that she lives, but if she is here he needs to find her. He loosens the shield of his soul, which he until now he has held pinched tightly closed, and fills himself with the love and yearning that never left him.

For a moment he feels her, his shine on the water, and he is glad in spite of himself. But she flickers away so quickly that, were her essence not seared into his heart, he could almost doubt she was really there. Very well. Perhaps she is not yet ready. He forbids himself from pondering her motives too minutely, and resolves to give her the space she needs.

Instead, he tests his reach with something safer. He imagines Tadhion this time, smiles and helpfulness, good nature in face of bleakest darkness. Nothing. This should be easy--he knew him well, went through so much with him. But there is not even a whisper. Perhaps he is not here? He tries Ithillin--resilient and hopeful and hardworking. Also nothing. Perhaps against all hope they survived their escape; perhaps they found their safe place and still dwell somewhere in Middle-earth.

There is another he hopes and fears to find here. He takes a moment to center himself, rediscover his own boundaries, and then reaches out for--steady and intelligent and reliable and the object of all his admiration-- _ brother _ —

He brushes against something, a soul locked down tight within itself and pulsing with anguish. But as he hurries closer to it, another vast presence springs up in around him. She is equally as powerful as the Lord of these Halls, but different in nature--a tender and a healer. Be careful, she tells him. We are trying to help that one recover, but he has suffered much and his torments consume him. 

I know, he protests, that’s why I need to go to him. Has he been suffering like this ever since he died? He needs to help he can’t fail him again please  _ please _ \--

You may go, if he allows it, the presence concedes. But you may only be dragged down into his dark thoughts yourself. Even his parents cannot bear to stay with him for long. Your own recovery will certainly be delayed if you align yourself with him too deeply. Are you prepared to make that sacrifice?

Yes, of course he is. He has experience pushing back bad memories and managing flashbacks. His brother never got that chance.  _ Let him help _ .

The presence fades and he reaches out once more. The soul hot and roiling with torment still throws out rigid barriers against all incursion, but he presses against them equally as fiercely and calls to him, brother, brother, Gelmir, my Gelmir,  _ my Gelmir— _

One corner of the soul lights up with the slightest tinge of recognition. Yes, yes, it's me, I’m here, he sends, I’ve got you, it’s going to be all right.

Abruptly, all barrier between them falls away and he is sucked down and drowned in a melange of agonizing torments. The pain of losing a hand multiplied many times over. Chained tight, unable to struggle, his last sight a wicked spike thrust toward his eye. The images tumble and swirl like a stormy sea with no escape. Occasionally he catches on a hint of a memory of light and happiness, before he is dragged under again.

First, he rebuilds his own sense of self. These are not his memories, though some of them are hauntingly similar. He tries to wedge one of his own into the chaos. Something joyful is likely to simply be rejected and buried in the pain. Instead, he eases out of the worst of the torments into the quiet stillness after their shift in the mines. When the work hadn’t been too demanding, and no one had been whipped, and Gorthir was huddled next to him, softly stroking his hair, slipping a hand beneath his tattered shirt up against his skin—

No, wait. He remembered explaining that he couldn't-- That wasn’t him. Gelmir? 

How did you find that? How did you know about that?

I was there. Only the last part was you.

Abruptly he is seized by a rush of fierce protectiveness and bitter rage. No--no--not you--they can’t have you--no—

Too late, I’m afraid. Though if you havn’t noticed, it got worse. We are in fact both dead.

Death’s not the worst thing that can happen. Dead is safe. No body means they can’t do that—

And they are back in the endless cacaphony of rough hands and rusty knives and pain and pain.

He clings to his own sense of self and continually essays to introduce slightly less terrible memories into the blend. Look, he pushes to Gelmir, and shows him all the times the prisoners worked their way to freedom, culminating in his own escape with Gorthir and Ithillin at his side. I got out. I was--This deeply linked, he couldn't get away with trying to pretend that he was entirely whole afterward. But he survived. They all did.

Gelmir fades his barrier just slightly, his thoughts seeking Gorthir.

I don't think he's here. I looked. I think they're still alive.

Happiness wars with fear. That means they are still in danger.

He does his best to soothe away the anxiety. They said they wanted to go to a safe place. I think they might succeed. This time, he manages to keep Gelmir stable, if not particularly happy, for a good while longer before the flashes of pain and fear became more and more frequent until they bleed into each other.

The vast healing presence washes through them for a moment--she is impressed. He’s making excellent progress.

He doggedly starts over. He'll do this as many times as he has to.

Their parents do glance off of them occasionally. The first time, he detaches from his brother long enough to pour out to his mother and father a brief summary of what he'd experienced since he'd seen them last. He tones down the worst parts and tries to present just the bare facts. He expresses to them what he's been trying to do to help Gelmir. They answer with their worry that he will hurt himself doing so, but he replied with confidence that he is determined to do this no matter what. They visit to check in occasionally, but seem satisfied letting their sons commune with each other.

Eventually, he is able to keep Gelmir distracted from his worst memories more often than not, and to interrupt any downward spirals when they occurred. He  moves on to dwelling occasionally in happier memories of their childhood. Ever so gently, he introduces the idea that they might at some point be ready to walk among the living again. 

Will it hurt? Gelmir wants to know, with a certain weariness still clinging to him

Well, probably, sometimes, he has to admit. Living inherently comes with risks. Even in the Blessed realm, they might eventually attempt something that could get them hurt. Wouldn't things eventually get very boring otherwise? But surely the Valar would protect them from anything as bad as--he referred to the true torment very obliquely, so as not to send him tumbling into a flashback again.

There is no pain here, Gelmir insists stubbornly.

That is true, he admits with resignation, and resolves to continue his efforts.

He indulges in tantalizing memories of the simple sensory pleasures that can only truly be experienced in the flesh. Sipping mulled wine on a midwinter night. Stepping into a cool stream on a hot day. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at the feet of a great bard and listening to her sing her tales. Things that in the last days of his life, with the shadow so often over him, he was unable to very often enjoy, however much Finduilas tried to help him.

A jolt of melancholy flows through them, and Gelmir reacts with an unexpected gesture of soothing pity. You have wounds that need to be healed as well, little brother, he chides. You cannot focus all your energies on me.

From there they work together. They uncover feelings of inadequacy, despair, and yes, even jealousy. Gelmir does not always have personal experience to offer, but he loves and cares for his brother and always reminds him how much he is worth.

Eventually, he is confident enough to seek Finduilas's spirit again, but this time he finds nothing, not the smallest trace. She must have gone, and he didn't notice. He only hopes she is waiting for him on the other side.

Their parents visit more often as Gelmir becomes more coherent, and lend their voices in touting the benefits of returning to life. Eventually, they succeed in convincing themselves, and they become obviously anxious to go. They remain for the sake of their sons, but their thoughts are ever of the sun, real conversation with people who might be waiting for them, the desire to touch each other again.

Go, Gelmir tells them eventually. He is finally ready imagine at least the possibility that he might in the future be ready to live himself. And he knows with complete certainty that until then, his brother will be with him the whole time.

Their parents assure them that they love them, that they will miss them, and that they will eagerly await their return. Then they do not come around again, and when the brothers reach out for them, they are not there.

Gelmir continues to make progress, slow but steady. He does not cease to remind Gwindor to remedy his own lingering hurts, and eventually even Gwindor begins to feel the occasional twinge of impatience. 

Gelmir is apologetic; he is trying his best to overcome the last of his fears. But they are bound close almost as one soul most of the time, and jolts of pure terror still flashed through him occasionally. 

They try every technique they can to mute these feelings, cushion them, detatch them from the memories they've themselves into. The Vala of healing occasionally interjects suggestions, which almost always prove useful in some way.

And finally, deep in Gelmir's core they unearth something like courage. The ability to look directly at your fear and say, but there's something I want more, and then take it.

They spend eons shoring it up, remembering what it feels like to face down those little fears. Riding out to battle and staring down the possibility of your own death, but never actually suffering more than a flesh wound, back when neither  had yet faced the realities of degradation and captivity and torture.

He shares the time he served as a distraction so that others could escape, when he took up a sword against those that could punish him with whips and shackles. When he went out to battle for that last time, having only a fraction of his former strength and knowing what he risked if he were to be recaptured.

And finally, finally, it is enough. The fear of pain, of occupying a vulnerable body of flesh, still swirls in Gelmir always. But his brother promises to be by his side every moment. To protect him whenever he needs it, and to soothe his fears if he needs that too.

All right. I think I can try. He reaches out, pushing through terror that rises up to prevent him, and tells the Halls they are ready.

The Lord of the Halls is so, so pleased with them. What he has accomplished is a true act of love, and Gelmir's willingness to have faith in spite of his fears is equally admirable.

Some feelings become more difficult to manage, he warns them, once you have a body to feel them with again. You may have a lot more work ahead of you.

I promised I'd stay with him, he says.

We will make sure you are beside each other when you wake, the Vala assures them. It would hardly be fair to reward such devotion with separation. Each of you may still choose one who dwells among the living in Valinor to meet you when you return.

Possibilities flicker through Gelmir's being. People he knew throughout his life, all with their accompanying emotions. But in the end, he chooses someone safe, predictable. Their father.

Gwindor chooses their mother, out of fairness, though for a moment he wonders what would have happened if he'd asked for Finduilas? He can hardly predict who she has become or how her feelings have changed since she left the Halls. Would she have come to meet him?

Two spirits are not meant to dwell in one body, and as much as they resist, they have to pull themselves apart from each other if each spirit is to be put in his own proper home. I'll be right here, I promise, he sends one more time before the connection is broken entirely.

He opened his eyes.

 


	20. Reunion II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finduilas and Gwindor return to life in Valinor and have to figure out where they go from here.

Finduilas knew she ought to be able to do better than just loitering anxiously across the street from Guilin and Banloth's house. Gwindor's parents had not been highly visible in the Tirion social scene since they returned to life; they mostly remained at home and devoted themselves to their respective artistic pursuits. But she had talked to them briefly on the few occasions she had seen them in public, and she was sure they would have been happy to accept if she were to invite them over to dinner with her family some night.

But she couldn't find the nerve. She'd spent many long-years recovering in the Halls of Mandos, but returning to life and a body had left her vulnerable to all sorts of fears that she had not yet fully dealt with. She felt guilt for letting Lady Banloth die of grief, but could not find a way to politely issue an apology for something that in the end had been Banloth's own choice. And she didn't know what either of them had heard about how thoroughly she had let her relationship with their son disintegrate after he escaped Angband.

They would have had plenty of sources of information if they'd cared to ask, and not just from the numerous former residents of Nargothrond that had come west either over the sea or via the Halls. On a visit to Tol Eressea, she had discovered that a human poet had set Turin's entire tragic life to verse, including the parts that involved her. She was enough inclined to self-punishment to attempt to sit through a full performance. She'd had the fortitude to endure the description of all her folly and faithlessness, the despoiling of Nargothrond by the dragon, even her own death and Gwindor's. For some reason, it was when the tale told how Niniel had become pregnant with her brother's child, unaware, that Finduilas was forced to excuse herself from the performance hall. How often had Turin wished for a sister like her?

So if Gwindor's parents had heard anything of this, she feared the awkwardness of any prolonged conversation. She had so many other things to do that were not nearly so troublesome. Her father was eager to show her all the places in Valinor that he remembered from his childhood, and regaled her at length with explanations of how they had either changed or remained the same. He was otherwise immensely pleased by the existence of numerous other former Noldorin kings and firmly stated his intention to eschew all things political forevermore. He was content to live a private life and spend his days studying all the history he had missed of events in Valinor that had occurred while he was gone. Her mother split her time between Tirion and Tol Eressea, where many of the Sindar had chosen to settle, and occasionally travelled to the furthest corners of Aman. Her own clan members were not entirely content yet, and continued to search the northern expanses of Aman for something that felt more familiar, like their old mountain home.

Finduilas had returned to life with the certain knowledge that leading and serving people were a part of her, too. One that could be turned to good if she let herself follow her best instincts rather than fall into old bad habits. Many of her extended family members still worked in various government departments under her great-grandfather Finarfin, still recognized as King of the Noldor in Valinor. She was happy to spend her days working with them wherever she was needed.

And yet sometimes she found herself surruptitiously watching the house of two people who she really ought to have better relationship with. Instead, she merely lurked and waited for any news of them she could glean through other channels. After nearly half an hour, she told herself that unless she was actually going to do something for once, she'd had enough of that for today.

But before she turned to make her way back to the house she shared with her parents, she felt a sudden, unseasonable chill. Moments later, a Maia of Mandos, with its eye-twisting cloak of black and white drifted past her. It approached the very door she had been watching and knocked solemnly.

She turned and walked hastily away before she could overhear any news. She needed time to think about this. She may have just run out of time to improve her relationship with Gwindor’s parents. Possibly. She was sure they’d understand if she wanted to ask whether they had in fact received word of Gwindor’s return, and she couldn’t think of any reason why they might forbid her from accompanying them to his awakening. Practically every member of the house of Finwe by blood or marriage had been gathered around  _ her _ when she took her first breath in this body. And maybe as far as they knew, she was just his long-suffering betrothed, eagerly awaiting his return. And it was true that she was desperately excited at the idea that he might finally be coming back. It was just more complicated than that.

In the end, she took the coward's way out again, and visited her Uncle Finrod in his office in the palace the next morning.

“Finduilas! Good morning!” he greeted her enthusiastically when she walked in. Then he inhaled sharply. “I don’t quite have that list of candidates for the vendor licensure subcommittee ready for you yet, there’s still a few people I wanted to talk to. I can have it done by tomorrow, Alduya at the latest, if you need it right away.”

“It’s all right, that’s not exactly what I came in for,” Finduilas assured him with a wave of her hand. “I actually--so," she couldn't help twisting her hands as she spoke, "I happened to see one of Mandos’s servants at Guilin’s house yesterday and…” She hoped that he, never short on news from around the city, would fill in the rest for her.

“Oh, Finduilas, yes, this must be even better news for you than it was for me! I’ll be coming with you, actually, Guilin asked me personally if I’d be there, seeing as both of his sons had sacrificed so much in the service of my kingdom.”

So it was true. Her stomach dropped and she felt faint. It was true, Gwindor was coming back and she definitely needed more time to herself to deal with this. “Don’t--don’t worry about the committee candidates,” she said as she backed out of the room. “I probably won’t be able to get any work done anyway, before...you know…”

“Of course, of course. I’ll see you when we head out on Valanya then?”

“Yes, I— I look forward to it.” she answered with a weak smile.

The next few days were hardly enough time to sort out all the thoughts and feelings she'd been avoiding dealing with for the past several years. She barely managed to project an outward calm as the party, which turned out to include her, Finrod, her father, and several of Guilin and Banloth's relatives, threaded their way through the silent grove of towering trees. Inside, Finduilas frantically tried to convince herself that this hadn't been the wrong idea. She still hadn't exactly talked things over with Gwindor's parents, but they had nodded warmly at her and seemed to take it as a given that she would be joining them.

It wasn't as if she wasn't going to speak to him eventually. Ice formed in the pit of her stomach and she felt short of breath at the very thought that she might already have lost him forever. And if she was going to, she might as well do it as soon as possible. She couldn't spend months or years avoiding it merely because it frightened her, not knowing how things would turn out.

But it did frighten her, so much. She knew she did not deserve to have him, after the way things had ended. She had to force herself as she walked not to spin tragic fantasies of what she would do if this all went for the worst. In a few hours she would have spoken with him and she would know. Until then she had to have hope, or at least not fall prematurely into despair.

They reached a clearing much like the one Finduilas herself had awoken in many years before. She didn't know exactly if it was the same one, if there was more than one, or if they just reformed themselves over and over with each new soul coming to life. The two they had come to meet lay side by side on a low, grassy mound, eyes closed and the rise and fall of their chests barely perceptible. Vaire's handmaidens did their best work clothing those celebrating their day of rebirth. Finduilas's own robe, stored at home as a treasured keepsake, had been a delicate cream embroidered with pink flowers and pale green leaves. Gwindor was dressed in a robe of red with a pattern of energetic lines and angles picked out in gold thread, Gelmir in calmer swirls of blue and green.

Guilin crouched by Gelmir's side, and Banloth actually took Finduilas by the hand led her to kneel next to Gwindor with her. For one shining moment, she saw him lying there, hale and whole and perfect and beautiful as the day she first met him, and she smiled.

And the next she pressed her hand into her mouth and fell completely to pieces. What did it say about her, if she were to profess her renewed feelings of love only when the flaws she'd seen in him had been removed? How frail and fickle would that prove her heart to be?

He deserved better. He should have had someone who would stand by him even in his worst moments. Not a traitor like her, who had abandoned him the minute someone more interesting, who didn't even return her feelings, wandered by.

She staggered to her feet, blinking back tears as she turned and rushed from the clearing.

* * *

For one glorious moment, Gwindor's first sight in his new life was of his beloved leaning over him.

But even as he opened his eyes, she leapt up and hurried away. He would have followed her immediately, but it seemed his spirit was still learning to bend his body to his will, and he could only spasm ineffectually.

"Gwindor?" someone said. He blinked his mother's face into focus. He was happy to see her, of course, but his thoughts were still mostly for Finduilas. By the time he figured out how to turn his head, he could see no trace of her save for a couple of recently disturbed branches waving at the edge of the clearing, near where Orodreth now stood expressionlessly.

A soft, wordless cry to his other side grabbed his attention. He didn't remember much about what had happened in between his death and now, but the promise he'd made to his brother was seared onto his soul. Now he sounded distressed, and Gwindor could not ignore that.

He managed to roll over. Gelmir seemed to be having much the same difficulty in acclimating his spirit to its new dwelling, and was not handling it well. "'m here," he murmured--tongues, words, how did they work?--and flopped a hand onto his brother's shoulder.

Gelmir silently mouthed Gwindor's name. "That's right, he's right here," their father was saying, "we've got you both," Gelmir looked at their father, then at Gwindor, then slowly and exactingly bent his elbow until he could cover Gwindor's hand with his own. He looked at Gwindor, his eyes filled with some obvious  _ purpose _ , and Gwindor instinctively reached out to catch his meaning with some sense he did not possess. Why had he been so sure he could so easily know Gelmir's thoughts? He'd never been any good at that sort of thing, even with family.

Still, he could guess. He remembered times after his return to Nargothrond when his movement had by some small accident been unexpectedly hindered, how the panic had welled up in him out of all proportion. "It's all right," he said, the words coming easier, "just breathe. You're safe." 

Gelmir swallowed and nodded. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, and appeared to grow less tense. Gwindor had a vague notion that it might be nice to reposition himself, maybe even sit up, but he was loath to pull away his hand-- _ oh _ . Hands.  _ Hands _ . He had two of them again. This was good. Given a couple minutes to relearn how everything worked, and with his mother's help (accompanied by chirps of worry), he and Gelmir both made it to a sitting position without ever losing contact with each other.

Relatives and other well-wishers, some of whom he'd barely met more than once, began to crowd around offering their congratulations and welcome. For the most part, they tried not to put too much pressure on the newly revived to do more than nod and express their thanks. Gwindor saw Gelmir smile and even attempt a joke as he spoke with Finrod, who insisted that whatever his titles now may be, King was not among them. He also adamantly refused any apology Gwindor tried to offer about the collapse of his kingdom.

The longer this went on, though, the more Finduilas's continued absence weighed on his heart. He asked his father to help him to his feet, which involved a whole new wave of coltish fumbling but was eventually accomplished. He shook a few more hands and accepted a few more good wishes as he made his way to the spot he guessed Finduilas had vanished into.

Her father still leaned against a tree nearby, hanging back at the edge of the festivities. He looked meaningfully behind him, farther into the forest, and nodded to Gwindor. His grave expression seemed to admonish Gwindor to choose his actions carefully.

She hadn't gone far, and was not hard to find between the glint of the sunlight on her hair and her soft sniffles. Even with her eyes and nose red from crying, she was almost lovelier than he remembered. He couldn't imagine what might have upset her, but he knew he would do whatever he had to in order to make it better.

She straightened her posture and visibly composed herself when she caught sight of him. He wanted nothing more than to scoop her up in his arms and hold her, but when she made no move toward him, he hesitated as well. For long moments they simply watched each other, like two strange cats who had wandered into one another's territory.

"Faelivrin," he whispered, the shape of her name delightful in his mouth. 

Her breathing hitched a little. "Eithel Ivrin doesn't exist anymore," she blurted.

"W-what?" he blinked in startlement.

"When the Valar went and overthrew Morgoth--afterward everything west of the Blue Mountains was just--gone. There's only more ocean there now. At least, that's what I've heard."

"Oh." How long had he been dead, exactly? Morgoth had apparently been taken care of, that was good news. But-- _ all _ of Beleriand and more,  _ gone _ ? That was difficult to comprehend--and not entirely relevant to his current goals. He pushed it aside to mull over another time. "Then you are all that is left of the memory of its beauty." She stared at him, as if this were not the time for pretty words. He took a step forward, reached his hand out toward her.

She took it, but dropped her eyes. "You're very kind. But it's not necessary. I know that I have no reason to expect that we could simply pretend that--so many regrettable things in the past--didn't happen. And I acknowledge that the fault was mostly--entirely mine. So you need not consider yourself under any sort of obligation. I will fully understand--if you feel--that you can no longer--" And here words failed her and she sounded as if she would begin to weep again.

Oh, no. Had she convinced herself she had reason to doubt his continued devotion to her? Was that what had caused her such sorrow? He pulled her into his arms and she did not resist. " _ Never _ ," he whispered. "I never stopped loving you then and I'm not going to start now." The energy of a new life was making him positively poetic.

"And you deserve someone who can say the same in return and that's  _ not me _ ," she protested despairingly.

He held her tighter. "I don't care. I only want you. I only ever wanted you, and I don't see how that could change. You always remain yourself, no matter what you do, and I can't imagine desiring anything but your happiness." He pulled back just enough to look at her. "Do you  _ want _ to--to be with me?" he asked hesitantly, wondering with sudden fear if this was her way of breaking off a relationship she no longer desired.

"Yes,  _ yes _ , I'm just so afraid I'll hurt you again."

So much of his anger at that hurt had been aimed at himself, in Nargothrond, hardly any at her. And though he no longer thought he deserved that self-hatred, neither did he feel it needed to be redirected. "I don't think I blame you nearly as much as you blame yourself. But if you need to hear me say it, then _ I forgive you _ . Completely and with all my heart. Angband made me into someone that wasn't who you needed me to be, and that’s no one’s fault but Morgoth’s. When you needed protection, I wasn't enough. But we have another chance, now. I want to take it if you do."

“I suppose I’ll have to trust that you trust me, even when I don’t entirely trust myself.” She looked up at him, finally, with something like hope in her eyes.

“Please do. I think--we got caught up in a fate that was too big for us. And now, maybe, we can start over, see what happens this time. We’ve got forever to make this work. I have faith in us.”

After decades of torment and unknown ages of disembodiment, he was beginning to remember what it felt like to  _ want _ her. As the sensation came roaring back at full force, he ached to hold her, to touch her, in a way he'd hardly known he was missing before he died. She leaned in toward him, and at the barest hint that she echoed his longing, he pressed his lips to hers. Every sensation was still new to his new body, and his mind was afire with the overwhelming pleasure of it.

“I love you, Gwindor. So much. This is more than I could have hoped for,” Finduilas said shakily afterward.

“I want to give you every good thing you wish for,” he told her. A lingering part of him did wonder if he was being too optimistic. If there were events and feelings of the past that could not so easily be ignored or shoved to the side indefinitely and would someday have to be dealt with. But right now all he could think was that he wanted her, and she miraculously wanted him, and all he wanted to do was revel in the glory of it.

They stood there for several minutes longer, murmuring tender words and drinking in the feel of each other’s skin. Finrod once poked his head through the trees, noticed them, gave them an encouraging smile, then disappeared back into the chattering crowd.

Gwindor checked in again with Gelmir as the party began to filter back toward the road that led to Tirion. His brother was tentatively sanguine about the immediate future; they’d been assured that the journey back was carefully curated for the needs of the newly arisen. They would not need to walk far today before reaching the first small village where they could rest and recover some more. Gelmir gave Gwindor his own quiet congratulations when he saw Finduilas at his side.

As they travelled, Gwindor walked with Finduilas’s hand in his and quietly questioned her about what she knew of the history that had passed since he’d been gone. He first learned that many long-years had passed in the time he had taken to ensure that both he and his brother were healed enough to return to life. She had returned a few dozen years earlier, and tried to paint a picture for him of what her life in modern Tirion had been like so far.

“The rest of your family is well, I presume?” he asked, hoping that she had no other burden weighing on her heart.

“My mother is, yes. She’s been rushing back and forth between every corner of Aman, visiting all the Sindar and the other tribes who moved here. They're still trying to figure out what it means for them and their culture, to wind up here upon their return to life after they’d declined the invitation in the first place. She enjoys the work very much, I think, but it does keep her busy and she said to send her congratulations but she’d be just as happy to see you once we're all in the city again.

"And your brother?"

"So, Rodnor is also well as far as I know, but my information is less up to date. You see, he actually survived the war and stayed in Middle-earth afterward. Apparently he's now acknowledged as King of all the Noldor that remained there, if you can believe it." 

"No! Rodnor? The last time I saw him he was…" He shook his head. The lad hadn't even been fifty years old yet, though he’d heard how he’d grown to adulthood on the Isle of Balar, and must be well matured by now.

"Yes, well, everyone who comes west bearing tidings seems to have two things to say to me about him. One, he is an excellent king and very well respected by his people. And two, if he has not invited every unmarried male elf in Middle-earth into his bed, it is not for lack of trying."

Gwindor raised his eyebrows.

"They're usually at least somewhat circumspect about that second one but it always comes out eventually." She sighed with a fond smile. 

“So do you often get word from the east?” he wanted to know.

She launched into an explanation about the flow of information between Lindon, the Men of Numenor, Tol Eressea, and Alqualonde, and Tirion, and he ambled along beside her and rejoiced in the sound of her voice and the nimbleness of her mind.

 


	21. Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwindor and Finduilas settle in to life in Valinor, and make an important decision together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be explicit descriptions of sexual congress. If it gets too steamy for you at any point, you can skip to the end note for a summary of the important plot points that occur amidst the porn.

Gwindor quickly realized that as poetic as it might be to call Finduilas his whole world, no relationship could bear the weight of being someone’s whole purpose in life; he needed some pursuit of his own. Finduilas gave him all her attention for the first few days back in town, but it didn't take long before she let the work she was doing for the government take more of her time. He rejoiced that she seemed to have really found her niche, and had no intention of making her feel like he needed more of her than she had available to give him.

 His parents' house was easily roomy enough for him and Gelmir to live with them to begin with. Gelmir, after a few quiet months in which he exhausted every book at their house or that he could borrow from neighbors, started spending all hours of the day in the great library across the square from the palace in Tirion. Gwindor shared many fascinating conversations with him about the topics he studied, but he never truly aspired to anything quite so intellectual.

In his idleness, he recollected the days in the last years of his life in Nargothrond where he would complete the work he was responsible for in a couple of hours in the morning and then lose long hours in which he could not say he'd done anything of substance, not even enjoy himself. He'd hated how little he seemed to accomplish. With the benefit of hindsight, he recognized that he'd needed time to rest and heal. Instead he’d constantly drained himself to mental exhaustion  in an effort not to look useless next to Turin. Finduilas had done her best to give him the encouragement she thought he needed, but the dynamic was altogether unhealthy for all three of them.

He didn't feel the need for that sort of rest any more; from a place of wellness, the difference in his mood was obvious. He wanted something to do, some real meaningful work that would help other people. He had some experience at doing the same sort of tasks Finduilas filled her days with; he'd managed his own lands in Nargothrond for long and well enough. But he felt like he had the entirety of Aman open to him, and as much as Finduilas obviously loved the work, this wasn't really what his heart desired either. 

He helped a couple of people build houses on the ever expanding outskirts of the city, and that was closer. He felt keenly that he'd been granted a body that was whole and useful and he wanted to put it to a better use than the hard mining that had sucked the life out of him before. There were no wars to be fought here, but he desired something that would challenge him in mind and body the way fighting Orcs once had.

Then one day when he'd accompanied Finduilas to an informal dinner with a smattering of her extended family, Fingon happened to mention what he'd been up to recently.

Gwindor’s head whipped around from where he'd been half following Angrod and Gelmir's rather tense discussion of the modern integration between Sindarin and Noldorin marital customs. "Sorry, Fingon, a  _ what _ nearly broke half the bones in your body?"

"Dragon," Fingon grinned. "I'm lucky I was fast enough to stay ahead of it. You let one of those things get a grip on you and you'll be explaining yourself to Mandos before you know it."

Gwindor didn't let his composure falter completely, but his smile became a little stiff as he felt icy dread crawl up his back. It hadn't ever hit him this bad before, since he’d returned to life. "And where exactly does one find such a creature so close as to return to speak of it over dinner?"

"Oh the--actually, do you know where the Gardens of Yavanna are? Way off to the southwest of Taniquetil?"

He nodded, and reminded himself very, very firmly that he could never be placed in any danger he did not choose for himself. Gelmir, without even turning and looking in his direction, reached over and squeezed his shoulder. Gwindor let the sensation ground him in the present time and place. "Where she preserves a specimen of every plant or animal that exists in creation. I’ve heard of them. And that includes--?"

"Apparently Yavanna decided to bring some friends home with her after the war. She deems they qualify as--you know--things which Morgoth created for evil purposes but in the end only serve to heighten the glory of Eru's creation? But as I was telling Nerdanel, she still hasn't quite reshaped them into something that can coexist in a balance with other creatures yet. So she asked Tulkas for help managing them, and he rounded up a band of intrepid souls to keep them under control. It's exhilarating work, in my opinion. Dangerous, if you're not on your best behavior, of course.”

Gwindor glanced over to Finduilas, wondering if she found their subject of conversation upsetting. But she didn't appear to notice, being wholly caught up in a discussion with Argon over which colors were likely to come into fashion this winter. He leaned across the table. He hadn't felt like this, heart pounding and fear filling him, since he'd arrived in Valinor. And if he looked inside himself a little, he had to admit that part of him  _ liked _ it. He wasn't the sort of person who could be content in perfect safety forever. He  _ knew _ the feeling Fingon was talking about. He missed it.

"So, how does one go about getting into this sort of work, exactly?" he asked.

Fingon was happy to offer to bring him along the next time. Gwindor didn’t make any firm commitments, but promised himself and Fingon that he would give the matter some serious thought.

As always, Gelmir mentioned at one point during the night that they were still seeking any word of what had befallen Tadhion and Ithillin. Gwindor had learned that they’d made it as far as the Havens of Sirion, but he'd found very little reliable news beyond that. They kept trying and hoping.

This time, however, they hit their mark. "That name sounds familiar," said Idril. "Ithillin. Like I heard it just the other day, but I can't remember where…"

Gelmir tried not to look too eager or too hopeful. "If you can't--I understand--"

"No, no, I've definitely--" Idril chewed her lip and tapped on the table as she thought. "Oh! That was it--Elwing said her nephew Elumir is seeing a lady named Ithillin."

Gelmir nodded slowly. "And he'd be with the--the folk in the forest on Tol Eressea?"

"I believe so, yes."

Gelmir nodded, and smiled just a little.

Gelmir eventually expressed a desire to move into a smaller house of his own that was farther from the library but in a quieter neighborhood. He barely even had to start forming the request before Gwindor agreed to move with him. Gelmir made plans to visit Tol Eressea soon, to investigate whether it really was  _ his  _ Ithillin Idril had spoken of. But he took rather longer that he perhaps needed to, preparing and making sure he was  _ really  _ ready.

Gwindor began to devote himself to training his new body in the use of spear and lance. He rode out to the Gardens of Yavanna with Fingon for the first time three weeks later. At times, he was afraid the intensity of the task was more than he could bear. However, he was not the only one of the company who occasionally needed to take a moment aside to regather their courage. He returned exhausted in body but renewed in spirit, ready to exchange with Finduilas the tales of their respective accomplishments. 

* * *

Finduilas smiled to see Gwindor waiting to greet her at the door of the palace when she finished work for the afternoon. She could wish that he’d chosen a slightly less hazardous way to spend his time, but he hadn’t been seriously injured so far and she had to admit that he seemed fulfilled in a way he hadn’t quite been before.

They twined their hands together and began to amble toward a nearby park which would have a gorgeous view of the sunset at this time of year. They mostly discussed the little highlights of what they’d done that day as they walked, but Finduilas no longer feared what might happen if the conversation turned to more serious subjects. As she and Gwindor reforged their relationship, they discovered the rough edges that each of them still possessed. But this time they  _ talked  _ about them, early and often, rather than avoiding them and letting small scrapes grow into festering wounds.

Gwindor took a seat in the grass beneath a huge, spreading oak tree; Finduilas curled up next to him and lay her head in his lap as they continued their conversation. This was not strictly out of bounds for an unmarried couple, although they got a few looks from the more conservative sorts.

"Do you think we’re still considered betrothed, even though we both, you know, died?" Finduilas wondered aloud suddenly. No matter what had happened before, they’d never formally ended things, after all. She stared at her uplifted hand. "Should we just have our rings redone, or…" She sighed softly.

"Betrothal seems like sort of a--social thing? That is, if we were married, we'd clearly still  _ be  _ married--"

"Well, yes,  _ marriage  _ is a real, observable change. You can see it in peoples' eyes, and when they come back to life they're still married. But for just a betrothal…"

He caught her hand in his. "I'm sure no one would object if you wanted to have some ceremony, exchange rings again."

She blew an errant strand of hair out of her face. "I sort of want to just  _ be married _ already," she grumbled.

He grinned. "Or we could just set a date."

She groaned. "My grandmother will claim she needs at least a year to prepare everything, and my grandfather will probably suggest we do everything traditionally and not see each other until then."

"Well, you don’t have to listen to him. I'm not going anywhere unless you really want me to." He brushed a soft kiss across the back of her hand

"I know, I just…We waited for  _ decades _ , before, and it was one disaster after another, so many things trying to keep us apart. And I  _ know _ none of those things are likely to happen in Valinor,  but--you did have to choose the most dangerous line of work you could find. And it...it scares me still, sometimes, putting things off and then wondering 'what if'..."

He bent down and kissed her forehead. "We could just elope, then."

She sat up and stared at him. "Are you--Gwindor, are you serious?" She bit her lip. "My grandparents would be furious, and--I can't even imagine, they'd be so  _ disappointed _ in me."

He raised an eyebrow. "But we would be married, and there would be nothing they could do about it."

"That's...true." She looked directly in his eyes and smiled hopefully. "Do you--really want to?"

“All I want is to be yours forever as soon as you’ll let me.”

She laughed helplessly, then threw her arms around his neck and kissed him thoroughly on the lips. “I love you,” she whispered. “Let’s do it.”

“So as I understand it,” he mused, “all that’s really necessary to make a marriage official is to swear the vows together and then complete the--hm--union of the bodies,” he wasn’t easily abashed, but he was blushing furiously now, “for which I expect we will want to go somewhere more private than this.”

“Yes, we, um, I suppose we will,” and now he had her doing it too, she could feel the warmth rising in her cheeks. “We can’t go to my house, my parents are there.”

“I’ve got mine all to myself; Gelmir shouldn’t be back from Tol Eressea until at least the end of the week.”

“Well then, I suppose we have a plan?”

Wedding rings, they decided, would have to wait until after they were married if they didn’t want anyone catching on to what they intended to do until it was done. However, they did decide to make somewhat of an event of it, if only for the two of them. Finduilas stopped by her house to change into something nice. She told her parents that she would be out with Gwindor for the evening and she might be back late. She thought it relatively likely that she wouldn’t return at all until the morrow, but there was really no need for them to worry. It wasn’t as if the streets of Tirion were any more dangerous at night.

They dined out at highly recommended restaurant specializing in exactly the sort of cuisine they remembered from the early days in Nargothrond. Finduilas had to admit that she let half the meal pass by without hardly tasting it. She was too busy staring in anticipation at the person who would soon be her husband.

As the stars began to kindle in the sky, they made the walk back to Gwindor’s house. He checked one more time that no one else was home, drew the curtains, and invited her to take a seat next to him. 

“Are you still sure about this?” he asked; if he was as nervous as she was, he let only a trace of it show.

“Absolutely,” she replied.

“All right. Let me see if I can remember how this is supposed to go.” Finduilas had attended enough wedding ceremonies since she’d returned to life, she was sure she could prompt him if necessary. He took a deep breath. “May the eye of Manwe witness this vow. I, Gwindor son of Guilin and Banloth, resolve hereby to take this woman, Finduilas as my wife. Whereas our bodies are made one, so may our souls be also. In so doing, I shall be her husband, and have no other as spouse, until the end of the days of Arda. In the sacred name of Eru Iluvatar I so swear.”

The energy between them was almost palpable--in fact she wondered if some magic was actually being cast between them. Her entire body was alive with it. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “May the ear of Varda hear these words. I, Finduilas daughter of Gilthand and Orodreth, resolve hereby to take this man, Gwindor as my husband. Whereas our bodies are made one, so may our souls be also. In so doing, I shall be his wife, and have no other as spouse, until the end of the days of Arda. In the sacred name of Eru Iluvatar I so swear.”

Tears sparkled in the corners of his eyes as he gazed lovingly at her.

“So now we--um--” she started.

“Yes I suppose we--we can go as slow as you need to, but just sort of--let our bodies lead the way?”

She pulled him down into a  _ very  _ deep kiss. She hadn’t let her thoughts linger too long on exactly what tonight was to entail, but for now there were some things she  _ knew  _ she wanted. 

When they finally parted, Gwindor hesitantly reached out and stroked her hair. He had not presumed to do so much since he’d returned to life, and the sensation was sublime, thrilling enough to make her gasp aloud. She leaned into his touch seeking more and he twined her fingers deep in her hair. Her breathing and his grew fast as they covered each other’s faces and necks in kisses.

She was intoxicated by the idea that there were no limits now but their own desires, that anything she wanted, she could ask for. Before long she was not content with the amount of his skin she had access to, and was busily unfastening his shirt. He laughed and helped her along. She was half in his lap by now, and ran her hands greedily along his sweat-sheened torso.

Watching her intently, he began to return the favor, slowly and deliberately undoing the buttons down the back of her dress. Nothing they’d done so far had passed a line they hadn’t crossed before, but this would. She’d seen him shirtless before they’d even started properly courting, but the reverse definitely could not be said. She didn’t say anything to dissuade him, and it reinforced the idea that this was actually happening. They were really doing this.

“Now--how does it--” he murmured, and had to disentangle his hand from her hair in order to properly unlace her corset. Once that was done, he slipped a hand beneath the neckline of her chemise and, still watching attentively for any sign of reluctance, gently cradled one of her breasts. He didn’t do much more than press in slightly with his fingers at first, as if testing the feel of it. But the warmth of his palm against her nipple and the delicate friction as she breathed were introducing a whole new sensation that prompted her to kiss him again and press herself toward him encouragingly. 

They proceeded to scatter articles of clothing all over the floor of his front parlor. Before either of them were fully naked, they managed to desist long enough coordinate a move to his bedroom and the relative comfort of his narrow bed.

“Oh,” she exclaimed softly when they reached the point where the last of the clothes were dropped and she got her first glimpse of his-- _ penis _ , if she was ready to see it she could call i it what it was. Their activities already prompted its growing large and stiff.  _ Quite  _ large, in her estimation, although in fairness it was not as if she had exactly seen others in that state with which to compare it. So  _ that  _ was what she was expected to-- 

Well, surely they still had--a ways to go before that would be necessary. She probably just needed a little time to be properly prepared.

* * *

Gwindor cherished the full glory of Finduilas’s unclothed body, her loose hair, almost to the point of worship. Every inch of her skin was now an opportunity to make her sigh or giggle or moan, and he relished all of it. When he’d had his fill, for now, of her outlying territory, he allowed himself to approach, cautiously, the soft garden at her center. 

He’d been educated in the anatomy of both sexes, distant in the past though it was, and thought he had some idea of what might please her. He slid his fingers just to the place where she opened, and stroked with a feather-light touch. “Is this good?” he asked.

From the way she arched into his touch, it was. She gripped his free hand tightly in hers, and squirmed with half-closed eyes. “Little higher,” she whispered eventually. He followed her directions as well as he could, and figured he’d succeeded when she cried out softly, then turned and wrapped both arms and a leg around him and ground against his fingers. “--you can--faster--” she gasped, her breath quick and heavy in his ear. He dutifully complied. He wound his other hand into her hair and kissed her scalp, though he had a bit of difficulty coordinating both hands at once.

Her body grew increasingly tense, desperate whimpers now coming with her every breath. She was the most magnificent sight he had ever beheld, and sight did not compare to the feel of her warm and wild against him. He tried to notice and repeat the movements that made her react the most, until at last she uttered a drawn out keen, then collapsed into a loose-limbed puddle against him.

He held her as she caught her breath. “Thank you,” she whispered into his chest. “Gwindor, that was--I love you so much.”

He'd done his best. “I’ll have all the rest of time to get even better at it,” he teased.

He lay there, wrapped up in her, letting his own need ride in a pleasant haze, until eventually she pushed away from him and rolled onto her back. "I suppose it's about time we get to the part we actually came here for," she said to the ceiling.

"If you think you're ready," he said, kissing her on the temple.

She nodded silently. He frowned, but guessed she was allowed to be a bit nervous before her first time, no matter how gentle he intended to be. He lay a hand on her shoulder just to preserve a connection to her, then rolled to the side and rummaged at the side of his bed for something to ease the passage. 

She showed some interest as he made himself as slick as he could. She even reached out and touched him tentatively with one delicate hand, though her face remained strangely pinched. At the sight of her touching him, he hoped she would not need him to last too long to be satisfied, for he could feel the passion dragging him along already.

"Do you think on your back will be comfortable for you?" he asked. He had some awareness that the act could be done in nearly any position in which bodies could be made to fit together, but thought it best to keep it simple to start with.

"'s fine," she replied with a small nod, rolling over and staring blankly upward again.

He was beginning to have misgivings, but for now he gave her the benefit of the doubt and took her at her word. He caressed her cheek as he moved to straddle her barely parted legs. He was sure those with more experience could do this more elegantly, but he had no option but to slide his fingers probingly between her folds to locate the place he was to enter.

"Gwindor I'm so sorry I don't think I can do this," Finduilas said in a voice almost too quiet to hear.

He was off her immediately, curling up by her side and taking her hand in his. "What's wrong, my dearest?" he needed to know.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, "I want to be married to you more than anything, I do, and if there was anything else… It's just-- I'm just--afraid--" She did at least turn and inch closer to him. 

He ran a hand soothingly along her back. "We can take our time, it's all right. If it would help, I could start with something smaller, a finger maybe?

She nodded and snuggled against him as he explored her with his fingers once more. But when he found her opening again, he could feel her flinch. 

"I'm probably just being silly," she said softly, however, shaking her head. "I  _ don't _ want to be the reason this doesn't work out." She took a shuddering breath. "I'm sure I can handle it, if you just--get it over with quickly--"

Actually, with her obviously on the verge of tears before him, he rather doubted he  _ could _ . "Absolutely not," he told her. "That would be a terrible way to start our marriage. We can wait, even if it means we don't actually get married tonight."

That got her crying. He held her and told her it was all right, that he couldn't love her any less and that they would figure this out together.

"I don't even know why I'm so terrified," she said between sobs. "I just keep feeling like--like I'm about to die."

"You can't be the first woman who has ever felt this way. There must be ways to ease your fears, if that's what's important to you. You could even talk to Este if you needed to."

"I bet I could talk to my mother before resorting to that," she sniffled. "She taught me everything I know about how bodies are supposed to bring pleasure. Of course that would mean telling her what we were planning, but I think she'd understand. She was never the one looking forward to a big wedding."

"There you go," He cuddled her and shushed her until her breathing grew more even.

"So," she started after a bit, sounding more genuinely cheerful, "I wouldn't want to be completely unfair to you, and I've been led to believe there are--other ways of, um--that I could--"

"If you'd like," he answered lightly, not wanting to put any more pressure on her than she already had on herself.

She reached down and gingerly took him in her hands once more. It took a fair amount of concentration not to be completely eclipsed by the sensation. She was so, so good to him, he barely had room to take it all in. He buried his face in her hair and kissed her and tried not to thrust his hips too forcefully into her delicate grasp.

After she'd spent some time experimenting with different grips and motions, none of which went unappreciated, she paused and said, "I know people sometimes use their mouth as well, is that something you'd like me to try?"

He literally forgot how to form words for several seconds. “Yes?” he gasped.

He'd let a cute Sinda boy suck him off at a festival once, and enjoyed it, but having the person he loved more than life itself offer to do this for him was a whole different level of experience. She took in just the tip to begin with and was exquisitely careful as she determined the best method of keeping her teeth out of the way. Eventually she was confident enough to get her tongue involved. He stroked her hair and moaned and writhed and thanked Eru for the gift of bodies that could feel such pleasure.

"Faelivrin," he had just enough presence of mind to warn her, "I'm so close--"

She removed her mouth from him and resumed working him with her hands. Whether by accident or design, she maintained a light enough touch to keep him hanging on the edge for nearly half a minute before ecstasy overcame him.

"Hm. It can be a bit of a mess with men, can't it," she observed.

He retrieved a small, clean towel that he kept handy by his bedside and helped her to clean off the parts of both their naked bodies that needed it.

Neither of them bothered doing more afterward than snuggling beneath sheets and blankets, their naked bodies twined together in peaceful contentment. 

"I love you," she murmured one more time.

"Love you so much," he replied. "My life, my love. My wife, someday."

"Someday," she agreed, before dipping into the haze of sleep still smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you decided to forgo the smut, here is a summary of the plot points that will be relevant in the next chapter: An extremely good time was had by all, but when it came time for the actual penetrative act that is supposed to consummate the marriage, Finduilas froze up and discovered she was not ready. Gwindor convinced her that "just lie back and get it over with" was a horrible idea, and that it was okay to wait a little longer to be truly married.


	22. Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finduilas and Gwindor move from joy to joy as the Ages pass.

As the first light of dawn filtered through the curtained windows, Finduilas smiled and snuggled in closer to Gwindor's body. No barrier prevented her from soaking in the warmth of Gwindor's skin pressed against hers. Even if they hadn’t quite crossed the final hurdle, she regretted nothing about the previous night.

Eventually, however, the needs of her body provoked her to reluctantly detach herself and clamber out of Gwindor's bed. After emptying her bladder, she thought to make them both breakfast, but poking through the cupboards she found little in the way of ingredients.

"Gwindor?" She turned around and frowned. She would have sworn she felt him right behind her. She poked her head back into the bedroom, where he still dozed. "Gwindor, what have you been eating for the past week?"

He rolled over just enough that his face was no longer buried in his pillow. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Gelmir does almost all the cooking. I've mostly been surviving off the generosity of others."

She sighed fondly and shook her head. "All right. You have tea, at least. I'm going to put the kettle on and then run out to that bakery on the corner for some pastries."

"Thank you." He rolled back over and pulled the covers over his head. "Love you."

"I love you too." She pulled on her underclothes, and decided that her dress had not been worn for  _ very  _ long last night, though it was a bit fancy for daytime wear.

This part of Tirion evidently got an early start in the mornings. Thin streams of people already hurried themselves along the street in both directions. She normally had a habit of rising early herself, but today she yawned as she walked. She supposed it was due to staying up she didn’t even know how late; part of her felt as if she was still cozied up in bed next to Gwindor. It was a nice feeling, though, and she wouldn’t have done a thing different to avoid it.

Just before she reached her destination, she was startled to run into someone she recognized.

"Finduilas!" Finrod exclaimed as he approached her. " _ There _ you are. I realize there's not much call to make a fuss, but your father  _ did _ worry a bit when you didn't come home last night. He'll be glad to hear that-- _ oh _ ," his eyes widened slightly as he came closer. The his face split into a wide smile. "Oh- _ ho _ ! So  _ that's _ what you were up to last night."

Finduilas took a step back in startlement. Was there something about her dress, her hair, that she'd failed to notice that gave her away? She thought she'd checked. "I--well--"

"I do not blame you in the slightest. If anyone deserved to just have it done with, it's you and Gwindor." He pulled her into a firm embrace. "Congratulations. I wish you every happiness. I hope this doesn't preclude me getting you a gift later."

"Thank you," she stuttered, still a little off balance. A wild, suspicious hope started to form in the back of her mind.

He took a step back and frowned. "Angrod's probably going to be difficult about this unless someone makes him see sense, isn’t he. How about this. You make sure to talk to your father--as soon as you're ready, of course--and I will break the news to my brother and make him promise not to make a scene."

"Would you? I'd appreciate it so much." If this was what she thought, she would be wise to take his offer.

"Wonderful. Where can I find you if I want to drop by later tonight?"

She bit her lip. "Probably my parents’ house? In fact, I'll make sure we’ll be there. Thank you so much."

Once he made his goodbyes, Finduilas rushed into the bakery, picked out a few things that looked halfway appetizing on a first glance, and hastily confirmed Gwindor's account with the proprietor. She didn't quite sprint back to Gwindor's house, but she walked as quickly as she could with any dignity.

She dropped the paper bag of pastries on the small kitchen table as she walked in and hurried straight back into Gwindor's room. "Gwindor?" she said, thoat tight with anxiety. She crawled onto the bed atop him. "Gwindor, I need you to look at me. It’s important."

"Wha--" He blinked and propped himself up on one elbow before looking up and meeting her gaze. "What's wrong?"

As soon as he looked at her properly, she could see it. The same bottomless reaching, the same  _ moreness _ that she recognized in her parents eyes, and his, and her grandparents, and every married couple she'd ever known. The thing that said,  _ this person is never alone.  _

"We did it," she whispered. She slipped her arms around his neck and began to laugh. 

"I--I suppose we did," he said with a spreading smile. 

"I confess I must have been mistaken as to what  _ exactly _ constitutes the consummation of a marriage, but whatever we did, it was enough," she said, and hoped she only blushed a little. "My husband."

"Yours forever. My wife." He leaned up and pulled her into a long kiss.

As he was still completely undressed, things progressed much more quickly from there than they had the night before.

* * *

Gwindor was finally dragged out of the delightful arms of his wife (his wife!) and into something like clothes by the sound of knocking from elsewhere in the house. The noise turned out to be a starling tapping insistently on his kitchen window. When he let it in, its presence had a gravity that far exceeded its apparent size and shape. This was no ordinary songbird, but a Maia of Manwe. Some of them had devoted themselves to flying back and forth, carrying messages from one end on Aman to the other for anyone who could convince them of their need. This one dropped a folded note of high quality paper in his hand, larger than a bird its size should be able to easily bear. It trilled imperiously at him, then flew over to perch on the table.

Finduilas peeked around his shoulder to see what he had been given. The neat, precise handwriting was Gelmir's. His heart thrilled a little, wondering if going to the effort of summoning a Maia meant good news.

He opened the paper and scanned over it as Finduilas broke off bits of her breakfast for the bird to eat out of her hand.

"It  _ is _ them," he told her when he'd finished, amazed that one morning could bring him so many blessings. 

"Oh, Gwindor, how wonderful!"

"Apparently they made it to Ossiriand, survived the whole rest of the war with Morgoth, and jumped at the Valar's invitation to come west afterward,” he summarized. “They settled in with the Sindar in Eryn Eressea  and have been living more or less peacefully ever since."

"We’ll have to go and see them soon. Besides, if your Fuilin is seeing a distant cousin of mine, she's practically part of the family already!" Finduilas grinned.

"Oh, that's not the half of it. Gelmir gets rather cagey at this point, but for him ‘Tadhion and I discovered we still have much to discuss’ is as much as saying he isn't letting Tadhion out of his sight again for a long time.”

He read to her out loud all about Gelmir's encounter with Elumir's intimidating sister Rillian. How Fuilin had taken up smithing and was now strong enough to throw either of them the length of the Calacirya if she so chose. How Tadhion, whose scars had softened but not entirely disappeared, nonetheless passed his days as a part-time actor and full-time socialite.

Gwindor located pen and paper of his own and scrawled a message for the bird to carry back. He considered waiting to tell him the full news in person, but he didn't know anymore when his brother would be ready to return, and thought he deserved to hear as soon as possible.

* * *

The news was duly spread to all their relations, who responded with far more congratulations than censure. The centuries passed them by like flowing water in their bliss. They continued to learn new things about each other and grew ever closer. With her mother's help, Finduilas did indeed become more comfortable doing everything she wished she could share with her husband. 

The phrase "when we have children" began to appear more and more often in their conversation. They felt no need to rush, but they were beginning to think they were ready.

But before they took the final step, the unimaginable happened. An army of Men besieged Tirion upon Tuna, dealing a staggering blow to their sense of safety before Eru visited his wrath upon them. The way west was hidden now, and none but those blessed by Ulmo could find it, but they had reason to hesitate a little longer.

Ere even one long-year had passed and Tirion had barely begun to recover, rumors began to reach Finduilas that made her uneasy. Ships full of Elves arrived from Middle-earth with alarming frequency, and the news they bore was grim tidings of war. Family after family discovered that long-sundered relations had been taken up into the Halls of Mandos. The last time this had started happening, it had culminated in Nerdanel and her daughter-in-law Ercasse coming to the family, drawn and ashen, to inform them that Celebrimbor was dead. 

Another fleet of five ships arrived, and Finduilas volunteered to go as an official emissary of the Noldorin crown, to see just what she could learn. She pushed through the crowds milling on the docks at Avallone, trying to hear any scrap of trustworthy news on the king's behalf and for her own sake as well.

Her heart sank at how many of those who disembarked appeared dead-eyed and despondent, even as they greeted loved ones. Those who seemed in good enough spirits, she asked for news. She introduced herself only as an emissary from Tirion. She never knew who had heard her name and her tale, and folk grew awkward sometimes depending one what they'd heard.

"It was Sauron,  _ again _ ," one said with a shake of his head. The fearsome Lord of Werewolves who had once driven her from her birthplace always seemed to return no matter how many times he was defeated. "King Gil-galad led an army east to oppose him, and he had the promise of help from all the Dunedain who survived the Fall. But I--I just couldn't do it again. I stayed behind in Lindon until I heard they'd won, but even then…" He grimaced. "Some things can't be rebuilt. It just isn't our time anymore."

She thanked him and moved on. Over and over she heard tell of the valiance of her brother and those who followed him. But also of the alienation and world-weariness of those who chose to depart.

"The Noldor have no king now in Middle-earth, and none seemed willing to take up the crown," a woman told her.

"W--what--" she stammered, but the woman had already turned and disappeared into the crowd.  _ Had no king _ ? What exactly had happened to the one they’d had?

She had to ask three more people before she could learn anything more substantial. "I wasn't there," a scarred woman said, "not right there, I was halfway across the battlefield when he fell. They say he faced up against Sauron himself. You could feel the heat off the Dark Lord before you got anywhere near him. I can't imagine how strong you would have to be to survive even a minute in hand-to-hand with him. And eventually…" she shrugged.

Finduilas mumbled her thanks and turned away. She had to spend the next hour sitting on the dock staring into the water. A long suppressed memory forced its way into her mind. An image of her brother's body, charred and broken. Was there no fate she could not escape?

She'd lost the will to ask more questions. She spoke to one more ship's captain, who handed her a letter sealed with the device of the House of Finarfin, which she delivered to the King upon her return.

She asked her father to relieve her of the burden of asking a Maia of Mandos for confirmation of what she'd learned. His face when he returned said that he had no good news for her. After holding out for so long, her brother had finally passed on to the Halls.

Their plans for a baby were put aside again while they grieved. Sometimes Finduilas felt guilty that after so many thousands of years, she had hope that she might actually see her brother again soon. That it had to happen this way.

Part of her couldn't imagine adding to their family until he had returned, if that were now so close a possibility. But as the years turned to decades, the old anxiety began to creep back in, that if she waited too long more and more things would appear to get in her way until she never got what she wanted.

Gwindor was willing to let her make whichever choice she thought she needed to; he was looking forward to be a father and would wait until she was sure she was ready. Thus, one spring early in what was now called the Third Age, they were able to announce that she was expecting a baby. She felt excited and pleased most days, above all the apprehension and occasional sadness that mixed in her heart, as she felt the new life grow within her.

She was sitting in the front parlor of her parents' house sorting through the mountain of baby clothes that had been donated by family members who would love to see them worn one more time, when she felt an odd chill. She didn't know if she was more sensitive to such things now, or if she noticed them more when she had to be concerned for more than just her own health. She looked to her mother, who seemed to have noticed as well and was staring at the wall, on the other side of which lay the front entrance. Moments later, they heard a knock at the front door, and her father's muffled voice.

He entered the room a minute after that, smiling and at the same time looking as if he were trying not to cry. Finduilas always had to carefully consider whether it was worth the ordeal of standing up these days, so her mother was the one to rush forward and take a distinctive looking message from her father's hands. 

Gwindor had to be assured when he walked in several minutes later that the tears pouring down her face were happy ones. Rodnor was ready to return to life. By some miracle, her brother would be there to meet their baby when it was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! We did it! They got their happy ending. It's been an amazing journey, I hope you all enjoyed it!


End file.
